


A Matter of Diplomacy

by CirrusGrey



Series: A Matter of Diplomacy (Swords and Fire AU) [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Updates Weekends, and I’m only adding that because I know how stressful it is, rating is for minor swears and spookiness, the minor relationships are (in order of appearance) Daisy/Basira Peter/Elias and Melanie/Georgie, to read a long fic with the ending not guaranteed, worms but they’re not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 57,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23480605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CirrusGrey/pseuds/CirrusGrey
Summary: There is a war brewing with the Witch Lords of the north, and the Serene Empire is not powerful enough to stand against them. Their only hope is to forge an alliance with the mysterious Lord of Eyes, a Witch Lord who is famed as much for his neutrality as his power.Martin Blackwood, a minor Raverran noble with far less political expertise than he claims, is drawn into the fray through a chance encounter at a ball. With an invitation to study at the Lord of Eyes’ personal Archive, he is sent racing north to turn this opportunity to the Empire’s advantage and somehow convince the terrifying Lord to save his country.
Relationships: Everyone & Everyone, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: A Matter of Diplomacy (Swords and Fire AU) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1901050
Comments: 1515
Kudos: 1064





	1. The Archivist

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I just finished posting a long-running multi-chapter fic. Yes, I have another one to post already.
> 
> This took me basically a year to write, from January to December 2019. I’ve waited to post it until the start of season five because ~~I got distracted by Yesterday is Here~~ the timing just worked out that way. However, since it was drafted so early in season four there are some inconsistencies with canon - the main one that stands out is that Elias is very much _not_ Jonah Magnus, but I’m sure there are others. That being said, it is an AU, so I don’t think that really matters.
> 
> The world this is set in comes from the book series _Swords and Fire,_ by Melissa Caruso, though it has been altered quite a bit to fit the Magnus characters better. It is a _fantastic_ series that I’d highly recommend, just… don’t take this AU as an accurate representation of the original books. Oh, and because I really don’t think I made this clear enough in the story itself: the Serene Empire is all the lands to the south of the mountains. Raverra is the city state that rules it. All Raverrans are citizens of the Serene Empire; not all citizens of the Serene Empire are Raverrans.

The room was ablaze with color.

Rich silks and satins swirled in a dizzying array of hues as the members of the Raverran court moved around the room, trading light pleasantries and deep political secrets as the evening wore on. This was no ordinary spring festival: one of the Witch Lords from Vaskandar was in attendance, and the entire court was aware of the significant alliances - or enemies - that could result from the discussions this evening. A buzz of tension lay beneath every carefree comment.

Martin sighed. Important though this evening might be, he wished it would end. The endless scheming for political favor was hard enough to follow on a  _ normal  _ day at court, let alone tonight. He wanted no part of it, which left him precious few people to talk to. He had spent most of the evening on the edges of the room, trying to keep an eye on the comings and goings of the more important attendees without actually drawing anyone's attention to himself. 

It was while he was thus engaged that he noticed the thin man with the book. He was near the edge of the room, ignored by and ignoring the press of people around him, a pair of blue-tinted spectacles perched on his nose as he scanned the pages.

The muted earthy colors of his attire marked him as Vaskandran, a member of the Witch Lord's delegation. Martin observed him for a moment. He had heard the horror stories, of course - most everyone south of the mountains feared their northern neighbors, and what little was known of the Witch Lords’ powers was whispered to children to frighten them at night. But that was just the Lords, those powerful fourteen who bent the land itself to their whims. There was nothing to fear from the ordinary Vaskandran people who eked out a living serving their fearsome rulers.

Martin approached him. It probably wasn't the smartest move, and he would kick himself for doing so later, but he was more scholar than politician and he couldn't pass up the opportunity to learn more about the mysterious lands to the north.

The man looked up as he got closer, lowering his book and giving a polite nod.

“Lord Blackwood. Nice to meet you.”

Martin tried not to wince. It was technically correct, but Lord Blackwood had been his father. It was not a title he had wished to inherit.

“Call me Martin, please, no need to stand on ceremony. But I fear you have the advantage of me.”

The man looked surprised for a second, then smiled. “Jonathan Sims. Or - Jon.” He gestured to the room. “Your court throws quite a fine affair. Is it always like this?”

“Somewhat.” Martin considered the room. “The level of scheming is pretty normal, but there's far more flattery afoot tonight to please your lord.”

“My…? Oh.” Jon laughed. “The Lord of Eyes? Something tells me flattery will not win your court the alliance they are looking for.”

That was not surprising, but it wasn't Martin's place to interfere in such matters. “You know him personally, then?”

“Well enough.” Jon smiled, and there was some humor in his eyes Martin did not understand. It was unnerving, and he wasn't all that certain he wanted to hear the answer as he asked:

“What is your role, then, in his court?”

“I am… the archivist. Though there is no court as such, just a bunch of people with jobs to do.”

“That sounds fascinating!” It came out far more excited than Martin intended, and he flushed slightly. “I mean - I've always been interested in history and learning, you must have access to quite a lot of interesting documents.”

There was nothing hidden in the smile this time except genuine pleasure in finding a kindred spirit. “It really is. There are papers in the Archives over a thousand years old - diaries and letters from people with stories from before the world was settled - from before the Witch Lords took over Vaskandar, even.”

“Really? I'm surprised any of that survived! I've always heard the conquest was… well, rather bloody.”

“It was.” Jon nodded. “And I don't know how much survived in the other Lords’ domains. But the Eye Lords have always hoarded knowledge, so…”

“Wow. I'd give a lot to read some of that stuff.”

“Really?” Jon smiled, glasses flashing in the light. “You should come and visit sometime! It's all rather disorganized, but I'm starting to get some of it under control. There's certainly enough sorted by now to keep a visitor occupied for weeks.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Martin laughed nervously, privately thinking that it would take an entire army of determined archivists to get him to cross the border into the realm of a Witch Lord. And maybe not even then. “Is it really your place to be inviting guests, though? I wouldn't want to get you in trouble with… well, you know.”

Jon raised his eyebrows. “I don't think he'd mind, no. Do the lords in Raverra object to visitors so strongly this would be an issue, then? I'm certainly not an expert on the culture.”

“Well, no, it's just…” Jon looked at him curiously. “I mean, he's a  _ Witch Lord. _ Some of the stories I've heard…”

“Ah.” His face lit with understanding. “Your empire has a long history of war with Witch Lords, I know. And yes, some are…  _ worthy _ of their reputations. But just because there are tales of horror of, say, the Lady of Worms, does not mean they are all the same.”

“No, I mean stories I've heard about the Lord of Eyes _ specifically. _ ”

Jon looked at him in surprise. “Really? Like what?”

“He can pull all your secrets from you just by asking. He can put thoughts and ideas in your head, that may or may not be true, but either way drive you mad. He can see _everything_ that happens in his domain - no one's allowed any privacy, and those that displease him have their whole life story drawn out of them by force, leaving them empty husks haunted by trace memories and nightmares of their former lives…” Martin stopped. Jon was looking at him with an air of amusement, and it had just occurred to him that these might not be the best rumors to be passing along to the man's archivist.

“...At least that's what people say,” he finished lamely. 

Jon laughed. “I had no idea Raverra held such a negative opinion of-” 

“Ah, there you are!” The interruption came from a tall, smiling figure, his genial nature belying the power he held over half a continent. 

“Lord Dekker,” Martin said, bowing hastily. This was the doge, head of the Council of Nine, ruler of the city of Raverra and the entire Serene Empire beyond. Martin had only had occasion to speak with him a few times in the past. His own title was minor enough that he was able to avoid such stressful encounters for the most part. No such luck tonight. 

He looked on in surprise as Jon gave the doge a polite nod, as among equals. His whole manner had changed in an instant, the laughing archivist replaced by a dignified coolness. “My lord. I must thank you for the invitation to these celebrations, it is quite an honor.”

Invitation? That made it sound like-

“It is our pleasure, believe me. It is not often our court is graced by such an esteemed guest as yourself, my lord.”

_ My lord. _ The realization swept over Martin in an instant, chilling him to the bone. Lord Dekker would only use that title for an equal, which meant Jon was…

As if sensing Martin's shock, the Lord of Eyes turned and gave him a cold smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been illustrated!  
> [@chalroe’s](https://chalroe.tumblr.com/) art can be seen [here.](https://chalroe.tumblr.com/post/615301235894108160/witch-lord-jon-for-cirrus-greys-a-matter-of)  
> [@fincherly’s](https://fincherly.tumblr.com/) art can be seen [here.](https://fincherly.tumblr.com/post/616137055879217152/now-its-able-to-be-clicked-upon-im-workin-on)


	2. The Falconers

The doge was still talking, apologizing for pulling the Witch Lord away from the festivities, but there were important matters they needed to go over and members of the Council he needed to meet...

Jon - the Witch Lord - nodded. “Of course. We have much to discuss. If you will excuse me, Martin.”

“Uh- right, yes.” He bowed again, jerkily. “My lords.”

The two wandered away, already launching into a discussion of borders and troops and what, indeed, might be beneficial to both parties if they could just work together… 

Martin stared after them, dumbfounded. He had been talking to a  _ Witch Lord? _ Jon hadn't seemed at all like the stories, but then, it could have been an act. And - he shivered, remembering the coldness that had descended over the man the instant he was recognized - it probably didn't bode well for Martin that the act had worked. He must have seemed like easy pickings in this room of politicians and deceivers, babbling on about old stories, not even recognizing a Witch Lord for what he was. But what was the purpose behind it? To ferret out information that otherwise he would not have heard? If so, it had certainly worked, though whether he chose to be proud of or offended by the rumors Martin had shared had yet to be seen. And what if-

His racing thoughts were interrupted by a friendly tap on the shoulder and a familiar voice speaking from behind him.

“So, chatting up Witch Lords now, are we?”

He spun around, coming face to face with a tall, handsome man in the uniform of the Falcons.

“Tim! I wasn't - I didn't - he said he was an archivist!”

“Did he now?” Tim raised an eyebrow. “And you were chatting him up because…?”

“I wasn't _chatting_ _him up,”_ Martin fumed. “I was _trying_ to be friendly to a guest of the court, since no one else was talking to him!” And also trying to learn more about the lands to the north, but that would just incur more mockery from Tim - as far as he was concerned, Vaskandar was an unknowable wilderness the sane world was better off without. 

“Yeah, everyone else was smart enough to not go near a  _ Witch Lord. _ Honestly Martin, one of these days you're going to get yourself killed.” 

“Says the man who's nearly died… what, going on twenty times now?”

“Twenty-one and counting!” Tim laughed. It was an old joke by now, born of long friendship and a tendency on both their parts to end up in dangerous situations with alarming frequency. Tim, at least, had the advantage of actually  _ intending  _ to charge headfirst into danger. Martin ended up there more or less by accident.

“And I'm sure we all sleep better knowing the leader of our brave Falcons takes national security so seriously.”

“Hey, I only joke about my  _ own  _ safety. National safety's a different matter.” The mirth faded from his face and he sighed. “Which is why I have such a bad feeling about this. I  _ tried  _ to tell the Council an alliance with a Witch Lord was a bad idea, but…”

Martin nodded. As Colonel of the Falcons Tim's advice usually held some sway over the Council, but the final decisions were outside his control. “Still not listening to you?”

“Got it in one. They just don't  _ understand _ . These… these  _ people _ , they're not like us, they're… dangerous.”

“You don't have to tell me, I  _ remember _ the war,  _ everyone  _ remembers the war. I may not have actually fought, but the stories I've heard…”

“Yeah.” Tim clutched at his sleeve reflexively, worrying the fabric over his arm. There were scars there, Martin knew, a permanent reminder of what it cost to keep the Lady of Worms out of the Empire. Still though…

“Better allies than enemies, right? If there really has been movement near the border…”

“That's just skirmishes. We don't need help from some other Witch Lord to keep the Lady of Masks out of the Empire.” Tim's voice turned bitter. “We never have before.”

Martin sighed. Tim was probably right - he certainly had a better grasp of the current political situation than Martin did - but that wasn't a topic he wanted to get into tonight. It was supposed to be a festival, for goodness sake. It was supposed to be  _ fun. _ “I know, Tim, but this one didn't seem… like that. He was almost… normal.”

“Yeah. Right. Right up until the moment he decides you're not worth the charade, then you're dead.”

“That's a pretty gloomy outlook, Tim. He  _ is _ a guest here.”

“Are you defending him?” Tim looked genuinely affronted for a moment, then relaxed back into teasing mode, letting the subject drop. They both knew he was being unfair - Martin knew how evil the Witch Lords could be as well as Tim did. “And here I thought you said you  _ weren't  _ chatting him up…”

“Tim!”

“Fine, fine,” Tim laughed. “You win, I'll stop! Hey, have you seen Sasha? She promised me a dance.”

“No, not yet. Maybe she got held up back at the Mews?”

Tim grunted. “She better be here soon. If I have to suffer through an evening of diplomacy, so does she.”

“Well, that's why you chose me as your second in command, right? So you'd have an excuse to drag me along to things like this?” Sasha appeared from the crowd, and Martin jumped. She could move like a ghost when she wanted.

Tim took it in stride. “Oh, of course. Why else?”

“Hmm, why indeed?” They both grinned, and Martin rolled his eyes. The only reason Sasha didn't have Tim's job right now was because she was still an active-duty Falconer, training the Falcons’ only fire warlock instead of getting involved in politics. There had been no question that he would appoint her, of all the Captains he could have picked, as his right-hand woman. 

She turned to Martin. “Hey. Want me to take him off your hands? He looks like he's being annoying.”

“Excuse me, I'm  _ always  _ annoying.”

Martin shoved him toward Sasha. “Take him, please! He won't stop talking!”

Sasha laughed and dragged Tim away through the crowd. Martin smiled after them. They were his two oldest friends, and no matter how much they complained about it, they all enjoyed the friendly teasing. It was a nice break from the false smiles and hidden purposes of the court.

But Martin was a Lord of Raverra, and he couldn't avoid his responsibilities forever, even if he had already spent much of the evening doing so. Pasting on a smile, he set off into the crowd to mingle.


	3. Strained Relations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven’t seen it already, go check out [@chalroe’s](https://chalroe.tumblr.com/) amazing [art](https://chalroe.tumblr.com/post/615301235894108160/witch-lord-jon-for-cirrus-greys-a-matter-of) for chapter 1!

“...and  _ that's  _ when I remembered we had already sent the boat home! So I turned to Hannah to see if she still had the pocket luminaries…”

Martin nodded along, trying to follow the thread of the story. He'd gotten caught in a conversation with the Lady Rosie, and had so far managed well enough with variations of “really?” and “go on,” but he was worried he'd actually have to contribute something substantial soon. If he remembered correctly this was all leading to an explanation of why Lady Hannah hadn't been able to make it to the festivities tonight, but for the life of him he couldn't yet make the connection between that fact and Rosie's story. 

“And then Hannah turned to me and said, ‘Wait! I already fed the cat before we left!’” 

Rosie chuckled and Martin joined in, not quite sure what was supposed to be funny. Probably a reference to something she had said earlier that he had forgotten? Hells, he was bad at this. The room was too loud, he kept losing bits of the story to the background noise. Still, he had to forge ahead.

“So what did you do?”

“What was there to do? We turned around and went back to the restaurant!” Her laugh faded as she caught a glimpse of something over his shoulder. “Oh… anyway. So Hannah's still dealing with that, just didn't have time to come tonight.” She took a step back, gesturing behind her. “Hey, I don't want to run off on you, but I should probably go talk to…” she didn't look like she had a way to finish the sentence.

“Of course. It was wonderful catching up with you, Rosie.”

“You too, Martin!” And she was gone.

He turned around, trying to see what might have driven her away. It didn't take him long to spot it. Heading directly towards him, the dark colors of his clothing standing out against the brightness of the crowd, was the Lord of Eyes. Martin stepped back a pace, looking for a way out, but there was no way to avoid the man without being rude. And it would be very foolish indeed to be rude to a Witch Lord.

As he approached, Martin saw that he had removed his reading glasses, and the mage mark around his pupils shone a brilliant silver. Martin swallowed. Only very powerful magic users were born with the mark; the Serene Empire ensured that such power was regulated by the Falcons and used for the common good, but Vaskandar allowed it to roam unchecked. Witch Lords, whose power was tied to the very land they ruled, were the most powerful of all. 

He gave a stiff bow. “Lord Sims.”

The man's footsteps faltered for a second, and the smile that had begun to form on his face dropped away. “Lord, is it? Changed your mind about me now that you know who I am?”

“Just trying to show proper respect, my lord. I fear I may have been overly forward before.” 

“Not at all. I would have corrected you if I had wished for a more formal discussion. We don't stand on ceremony quite so much in Vaskandar.” His words were friendly, but his tone had gone cold. Whatever pretense of friendliness he had been planning to put on had obviously been abandoned as soon as he saw that Martin knew who he was.

“Right.” He didn't know what else to say. Part of him wanted to snap at the man for lying to him earlier, but he knew that would be a very, very bad idea. Still, as long as he kept it polite… “Why did you say you were an archivist, though? Why not tell the truth?”

Lord Sims shrugged. “It is the truth, to a certain degree. Ruling in Vaskandar is not nearly so involved a political process as it is in Raverra, and I have a lot of time to pursue my own interests. Organizing the Archives happens to be one of them.”

“You could have informed me of your true title earlier, though, and mentioned archiving as a hobby.”

A half-smile. “But I did not want you to know my true title. I think our conversation here is proving that you would not have been nearly so free in your speech if you had known.”

Okay, that did it. Politeness could only go so far - the man was practically throwing in his face the fact that he had made a fool of himself. He raised his chin defiantly. “And what did you learn, since I was so ‘free in my speech’? What political secrets did you manage to wile out of me with your deception?”

“Only that you Raverrans have very strong opinions of my kind and our powers.” Lord Sims frowned. “I can't help but feel many of those stories probably sprang up in response to my predecessor, but I will not deny I have the same abilities. However, in one instance you were incorrect. I cannot show people lies. Only the truth.”

“Oh, and that makes it better?”

“I did not say that. The truth can be a terrible thing.”

“It is still generally preferred when one is a guest in a foreign court.” Martin took a deep breath, eyes narrowing. “It was a low trick, pretending to be something you weren't to get information.”

Lord Sims chucked at that, the mage mark in his eyes gleaming bright silver. “My dear Lord Blackwood,” - Martin winced at the title - “If I had wanted information, I would have just  _ asked. _ ” 

He took a step forward, and Martin was hit with a sudden weight of power in the air. All at once, he was acutely aware of the people in the room, every pair of eyes that could be focused in their direction, the intense pressure of being  _ watched  _ by so many individuals. He tried to step back, but his legs were frozen in place. The Witch Lord smiled.

_ “What is your deepest secret?” _

Martin's eyes widened as the question hit him. “I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing here. I was never trained in politics, my father left when I was too young to learn and my mother never cared enough to teach me. I'm completely unqualified for the court, I'm terrified they're going to catch me one of these days and throw me out.” He clapped a hand over his mouth in shock, whispering through his fingers, “Why did I just tell you that?” Not even Tim and Sasha knew the whole story - as far as the rest of the world was concerned, Martin's father had died at sea and his mother had taken over his political training.

“Because I asked.” Lord Sims’ voice was softer now, and the watchful feeling had bled from the air. “I- I'm sorry. That was… out of line.”

Martin's heart was still racing in fear. “What - what are you going to do to me?”

Lord Sims winced. “Nothing. I'm not-” he cut himself off.

“You're not what? A monster? You could have fooled me.”

If Martin hadn't known better, he would have sworn there was hurt in the Witch Lord's eyes. “I'm not staying in the city long enough to cause problems for you.”

Hells, that meant the alliance had fallen through. Politically inept or not, Martin knew that was far more important than his personal issues with the Lord of Eyes. “Please do not let my actions reflect on the rest of Raverra, I can assure you that-”

Lord Sims raised a hand to stop him. “It's not because of you. I have a long history of neutrality, and no intentions of breaking it.”

“Oh.”

That seemed to be all there was to say. They stood in awkward silence for a moment. Lord Sims started fiddling with the cuff of one of his sleeves. It was a very...  _ human  _ gesture, but Martin shuddered as he noticed that what he had taken to be a random pattern of embroidery on the hem was in fact a series of stylized eyes stitched into the fabric.

“Well,” Martin said eventually. “I'm sure you have more important people waiting to talk to you.”

“Oh. Of, of course.” He nodded. “It was… interesting to meet you, Lord Blackwood.”

Martin bowed. “Likewise, Lord Sims.”

The Witch Lord began to walk away, but paused for a final comment. “Don't forget my invitation. The Archives are open to visitors even if you would rather not speak with me. Just send word ahead and an escort will meet you at the border.” And he was gone.

Martin remained where he was standing for a few minutes, staring after the retreating figure. That was… he didn't know what that was. 

He looked around. Tim and Sasha were still dancing, and he didn't have the energy left to maintain small talk with the other members of the court. No one seemed to want him at the moment.

Martin went home.


	4. The Mews

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven’t seen it already, go check out [@fincherly’s](https://fincherly.tumblr.com/) gorgeous [illustration](https://fincherly.tumblr.com/post/616137055879217152/now-its-able-to-be-clicked-upon-im-workin-on) of The Lord of Eyes!

The sun beat down on the city as Martin's boat made its way to the Mews, and he was glad of the cool breeze that blew off the Imperial Canal. It was the main thoroughfare in Raverra, and the fresh water and easy transport it provided had let the city grow to what it was today, but as far as Martin was concerned, its best service was the relief it gave from the summer heat.

He disembarked at the dock in front of the Mews, leaving the oarsman to tie up the boat. The Mews was technically a military facility, housing as it did the most powerful of the Empire's mages, but it was also the only place the Falcons could call home. As such, it lacked the heavy-duty defenses and guards that most military buildings boasted, instead keeping its doors open to visitors at all hours. Becoming a Falcon was not voluntary for the mage marked, but they were treated well.

Martin made his way through the outer buildings, following the smell of smoke to one of the inner courtyards. He saw Sasha first, standing on the paved pathway that surrounded the grassy square, eyes trained on something he could not yet see. 

He approached, and joined her in watching Melanie. 

She was wreathed in flames. They dripped from her upraised arms, trailing in bright lines off each fingertip, flowing from where she stood in a brilliant path across the grass to the tall stakes of wood that had been driven into the earth there. This was balefire, blue and vicious and entirely under her control. The heat it generated raised a wind that whipped her hair around her face, and even from a distance the orange flare of her mage mark was visible.

Sasha nodded in Martin's direction to acknowledge his presence, but kept her eyes on Melanie as she issued instructions. “Keep up that control. Remember, you're trying to burn every other stake, not all of them.”

“I know.” Melanie waved a hand at her irritably, glancing over. The gesture turned into a wave as she noticed Martin. “Oh, hey! When did you get here?”

“Melanie!” This from Sasha, as the moment of inattention had allowed the balefire free reign over the courtyard. The entire line of stakes had caught fire, and it was spreading out across the grass. 

“Hells!” Melanie brought her arms down, trying to contain the fire, but it continued to spread. “Little help here?”

_ “Revincio!” _ The fire winked out as soon as Sasha spoke, her word cutting off Melanie's power. The fire warlock sagged in exhaustion as the strain caught up with her, and she grinned ruefully at the pair by the courtyard's edge. 

“Well, at least I didn't set the buildings on fire today. I'm calling that an improvement.”

Martin laughed. “Hi, Melanie. How's training?”

Sasha answered in her place. “Fine, so long as no one distracts her.”

“You say that as if I'm not the best fire warlock you've had in fifty years.”

This was true - she was also the  _ only  _ fire warlock to join the Falcons in fifty years. It was a rare and powerful gift, and Melanie was well aware of how dangerous it made her. Though she joked about her training, Martin knew she took it seriously - she had nearly burned down her entire village before the Falcons had found her, and if Sasha hadn't been on hand to get the situation under control lives would have been lost - including Melanie's father's. Sasha had braved the flames to snap a jess around Melanie's wrist, and the enchanted bracelet now ensured her power was only released when it was needed. It had meant Sasha had had to turn down the promotion to Colonel, but Martin knew she was quite happy with her situation - helping Melanie was more important than political maneuvering, and Tim made a fine leader.

Speaking of… “Well, I don't mean to interrupt your training. I was just looking for Tim, do you know where he is?”

Sasha waved vaguely at the building behind her. “Check his office, I think he was working on paperwork.”

“Thanks!” Martin waved goodbye, and as he was leaving heard Melanie say she was ready to try again. The last thing he heard before distance stole the sound was a sharp “ _ Exsolvo!”  _ from Sasha and the whoosh of balefire set free.

~~~~~

Tim’s office was in a quiet corner buried deep in the Mews compound, far away from the bustling chaos of the main buildings. The door was made of a dark mahogany, with a brass plaque inset at eye level reading simply: Colonel. 

Martin didn’t bother knocking. Tim had given him an open invitation to stop in any time, and the sensory artificeries built into the corridor gave him ample warning of any visitors. 

He was bent over a map of the continent when Martin entered, his back to the door. Figures representing army encampments and strongholds were placed at intervals across the surface. Martin couldn’t help noticing rather a lot of them were clustered at the border of the Lady of Masks’ domain. 

He cleared his throat, and Tim gestured at one of the chairs by the desk without turning around. “Take a seat, I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Not a soldier, Tim, you can’t order me around.”

Tim glanced over his shoulder, a smile hovering around his lips. “I do apologize,  _ my lord. _ I meant I would be honored if you would avail yourself of the seating accommodations at your leisure and I’ll be with you as soon as-” his voice lost its mocking servility “-you give me a damn minute to finish mapping out this new information.” He turned back to the map.

Martin grinned, but instead of sitting down he moved over to join Tim at the table with the map spread over it. From up close he could see the details of the figures that covered its surface. Carefully crafted models of soldiers indicated infantry divisions, while small wooden birds represented outposts of the Falcons. Across the border, in Vaskandar, smooth stones lining the mountain ranges hinted at the forces gathering in the Mask Lady’s territory. Martin noted that there were far more stones than either soldiers or birds.

Tim checked a sheet of paper sitting on the edge of the table, and drew another stone from his pocket to add to the collection at the border. Then he straightened, sighing, and gave Martin a tired smile.

“So, what brings you into these gloomy walls on such a lovely warm day?”

“I was going to ask if you wanted to grab lunch, but if I knew it was so gloomy in here I might not have bothered. What’s going on?”

Tim waved at the paper he had been reading from, then at the map. “New reports from the border. Some of the Worm Lady’s troops have been spotted among the encampments there. It’s looking like she and the Lady of Masks have an alliance.”

Martin paled, any good cheer he had been sporting draining away in an instant. “I thought there hadn’t been any conflict at the border. Just skirmishes, you said.”

Tim’s voice turned bitter. “Yeah, well, a lot has changed in the last few months.”

“You never said anything.”

“I’ve known for a while. Technically, though, this is classified information. I’m only telling you now because I know Dekker is planning on making an official announcement about it tomorrow.”

An official announcement. That never happened. Military movements were generally kept out of the public eye for security’s sake, and to not worry the civilian population. The doge would only be announcing trouble at the border if-

“Tim. What’s happening?”

Tim gave him a rueful smile, and gestured at the map. “We’re preparing for an invasion.”

“Oh.” Martin felt like the sound had been punched out of him. Yes, an impending invasion would warrant an official announcement. The last time a Witch Lord had invaded the Serene Empire had been the Lady of Worms, almost ten years ago now. It had taken two years and countless lives to drive her back over the border, and left the Empire in a weakened state it still hadn’t fully recovered from. The Lady of Masks had been taking advantage of this weakness for years to send raiding parties over the border, terrorizing the towns that lay near her domain. The idea of the two Witch Lords collaborating to bring down the Empire…

“How long do we have?”

Tim sighed. “I don’t know. A few months, at least. There have only been a few of the Worm soldiers spotted, and they have to travel the entire length of the Mask Lady’s domain to get there. We’ve got time to organize a counterforce, but…”

“But we’re not strong enough to stop them, even if we are prepared in time.” 

“Maybe.” Tim pointed to the map again, indicating the unique figurines positioned over the city and in Loreice, by the coast. “A lot of it depends on Melanie,” - he moved the painted flames to the border - “and Mike.” The lighting bolt was shifted as well.

“Mike Crew? I thought he retired from active duty after the war. Wasn’t he too injured to fight?”

“By peacetime standards, yes. But we’ll need every fighter we can get. Melanie’s powerful, but she’s not going to be able to do this on her own, and an injured storm warlock is the best help we can provide.”

Martin stared at the figures on the map. “Grace of Mercy. Does she know?”

“Sasha’s going to tell her tonight.”

“Right.” He picked up one of the stones, turning it over and over in his fingers. “What does the Council have to say about all this?”

“Nothing sensible. They still think we should send an emissary up to the Eye Lord’s domain, try to convince him into making an alliance. Fool’s errand, they'll just get the poor sap they send killed.”

Martin fumbled the stone, and it dropped to the table with a clatter. “The Eye Lord? I thought they already tried that?”

Tim grunted. “He never officially declined the alliance, just called it an interesting proposition and left. The Council’s convinced that if they talk him around the other Witch Lords will chicken out and we won’t have to fight off an invasion at all, but they’re just deluding themselves. Eye Lord, Mask Lady, it’s all the same, they’d all kill you without a second thought if they thought it’d be amusing.”

Martin stared at the map, thinking. The Council’s plan actually seemed quite sensible, to him. The Eye Lord’s domain had been one of the first established, over a thousand years ago, and remained among the most powerful to this day. Added to that, it shared borders with the two that were preparing for invasion - the Lady of Masks on the West, and the Lady of Worms to the North. He would bet good money they wouldn’t want to risk making an enemy of their powerful neighbor. And even though Lord Sims was terrifying - he shuddered at the memory of having his family’s secrets pulled from him - he had seemed quite a reasonable person, all things considered. Not the sort to want a war on his borders, at any rate.

He chose his next words with care. “Tim… you don’t think you might be, maybe, letting personal experience, um… cloud your judgement a bit?”

Tim glared at him. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Just that you’ve had rather more experience with the Witch Lords’ power than most people, and even though it’s all been bad, it’s not exactly a representative sample.”

“Look, if you expect me to-” Tim took a deep breath. As he let it out he seemed to deflate, the tension in his shoulders giving way to a weight of immeasurable grief. “...I know. I know he’s our best shot, and I know I shouldn’t listen to all the horror stories about the things he does. You talked to him, after all, and you’re still alive.”

Martin made an assenting noise, silently thanking the Graces he hadn't told Tim about the second conversation he had shared with Lord Sims. 

“It’s just hard, you know?” Tim continued, scratching at his sleeve and the scars underneath. “I’ve had two run-ins with Witch Lords on their own territory. The first gave me  _ these” _ \- he shook his arm - “and the second took my brother. Now they want to send some poor unsuspecting soul into the heart of the Eye Lord’s domain. He might have been polite enough at court but…” he sighed. “You’ve never been over the border, Martin. It’s… wrong. It’s like the land itself is alive, malevolent and just  _ wrong. _ The things it can do to you…”

Martin just nodded, letting him lapse into silence. Tim didn’t like talking about what had happened to Danny, but it had scarred him deeply - even deeper than the worms burrowing into his flesh had done. The young alchemist had been a rising star among the Falcons, and Tim had been at his side throughout, proud to be his Captain, his Falconer, and his brother - until they were sent on the trail of one of the Lady of Masks’ monsters, over the border into her domain to rescue a group of people who had been taken from a nearby town. Three days after they disappeared over the border Tim came stumbling back into the town, half of the missing group and two other members of the rescue party alongside him. The rest had been lost somewhere in the wilderness of Vaskandar, Danny among them. 

The resourcefulness Tim had shown in the rescue had made him a prime candidate for promotion, but he had carried the weight of that loss ever since. It had bred a deep and bitter hatred in him against the entirety of Vaskandar, and Martin knew how much it must gall him to have to turn to a Witch Lord for help.

After a moment Tim sighed again and shook his head. “It’s all a moot point, anyway. The Council needs to be tactful about opening treaty negotiations, and they don’t have anyone they can send without it being obvious they’re begging for help.”

A lead weight seemed to settle in Martin’s stomach. He tried to ignore it, to convince himself it was just fear about the impending invasion, but…

“How would they send someone without it being obvious?”

“Someone with another excuse to be there. Visiting relatives, or studying the history, or something. They’d have to be of high enough rank to warrant a visit with the Witch Lord, of course, and then they’d just  _ happen _ to bring up the political situation, and… well. Diplomatic bullshit would ensue, I would imagine. The only problem is no one  _ has _ relatives in Vaskandar, and they’re notoriously cagey about letting outsiders snoop around in their history.”

By all the holy hells and every single one of the Graces. He’d promised himself he’d never do what he was about to offer to do. But what choice did he have? There were invaders on the border and they needed help, wherever it came from.

“Um, Tim? I may just happen to know someone who fits those qualifications.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? You know someone who’s allowed to just wander into Vaskandar whenever they want and get an audience with a Witch Lord? Who the Council will trust to negotiate an alliance that could determine the future of the Empire?”

Martin let out a breath and closed his eyes, resigning himself to his fate. “Yeah. Yeah, I know someone like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is balefire more Desolation than Slaughter? Yes. Do I care? Most definitely not.


	5. On the Road

The road stretched out ahead of them, grey and empty. A few trees dotted the landscape, but mostly it was just a monotony of rolling hills, covered in sparse grass and gnarled bushes.

Martin sighed, and Basira grinned at him across the coach. 

“Bored?”

He made a noncommittal noise. It wasn't just boredom; boredom he could handle. It was boredom mixed with an ever-growing dread about the place he was headed and the knowledge that if he failed, everything and everyone he knew would probably be destroyed in a cataclysmic war. And also boredom, because he was too worried about his destination to focus on the books he'd brought along to take his mind off the journey. 

“Here. This'll keep you busy.” She tossed him a small wirework ball, about the size of a closed fist. There were small crystals strung up on the wires, and faint marks of artificery runes scratched into the metal. 

He turned it over, trying to divine its purpose. “What is it?”

“Puzzle box. Well, puzzle sphere. I've been working on it for a while.” Basira winked, the deep green of her mage mark sparkling. “It should keep your mind off that existential dread. You can move the crystals around on the wires, and it's basically a pocket luminary. So if it starts to glow, you've solved it.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“No problem. You're my test case. Let me know if it starts to heat up or something, because if that happens something's gone  _ very _ wrong.”

“...Right.” Martin moved one of the crystals gingerly. It slid along its wire, spinning off into the depths of the ball. Nothing exploded, and he decided Basira was probably just messing with him. She was, according to Tim, the best artificer the Falcons had, so it was unlikely something she made would actually be dangerous. Unless it was supposed to be, in which case it would be very dangerous indeed. 

She leaned back in her seat, giving him an appraising look. “Why are you doing this, if you don't mind me asking? Why are you the one charging off into the wilderness to try and save the day? No offense, but you don't really look like the hero type.”

Martin laughed at that. “I'm not. But it's not like there's any other option, is there?”

“There's always another option. You could have just let the invasion happen, stayed safe in the city and trusted the army and the Falcons to take care of it.”

“Yeah, well…” Martin fiddled with the puzzle, avoiding Basira's gaze. It was true, he _could_ have stayed silent on the issue. No one had known he had an invitation to visit Vaskandar until he told Tim, and it wasn't like he was qualified to broker an alliance anyway. Still… “I couldn't just do nothing. I don't want to sit back and watch my friends die, knowing I could have done something to save them.”

“You'd rather die in their place?”

“Well, no, I'd rather no one died at all.” He glanced up. Basira was looking at him with a small smile, her head tilted to the side. “But if there's the slightest chance I can stop that… I think it's a risk I've got to take, don't you?”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Yeah, I do.”

They fell silent. Martin continued pushing the little bits of crystal around the puzzle, though he had a feeling he wasn't getting any closer to solving it. Basira stared out the window at the hills rolling by.

Several hours passed like this, the gradual thickening of the trees around the road the only indication they were making any progress toward the border. Occasionally one of the guards that had been assigned to protect them on the journey would pull a horse in close to the coach's windows to check on them, but for the most part they were left alone. Basira pulled out a case full of wires and crystals around mid-afternoon and started working on another project. Martin couldn't tell what it was, and was still too wrapped up in his own thoughts to ask.

The sun was lowering in the sky when the coach finally stopped. There was a knock at one of the windows, and a head ducked inside the frame to pass on a message. 

“We've reached the next town. Going to stop for the night.”

Basira put down her project and smiled at the woman in the window. “Thanks, Daisy. Everything alright out there?”

“Fine. Quiet.”

“Good.” Daisy ducked back out the window, and Basira started packing away her materials. Martin followed suit, shoving the puzzle sphere into a pocket and grabbing his bags. Basira put a hand on his arm to stop him before he left the coach. 

“Hey, Martin?”

“Yeah?”

“Everything you're doing here? Heading into danger to stop a war, putting yourself in harm's way to protect your friends?” She grinned. “Sounds pretty damn heroic to me.”

And she stepped out of the coach, leaving him no time to deny the compliment.

~~~~~

It was a fairly small town, and the residents avoided the party for the most part. Even the innkeeper limited their interactions to arranging rooms and fetching meals. News of the incoming invasion had spread rapidly across the Empire following the doge's announcement, traveling like wildfire across the courier lamps. The semaphore system, usually flooded by merchants checking the price of goods across the continent and politicians fretting about their status in court, had been overrun on that day by individuals checking in on traveling family members, making plans to move people away from the border, and desperately begging fighting-age children not to join the army. 

Rumors had spread about the last-ditch effort to forge an alliance. The townsfolk avoided Martin as though he were already dead, and his guarding escort were shunned as his executioners. 

It did  _ not _ help his confidence in his mission.

“Check.”

“What?” Martin yanked his thoughts back from speculations of the horrors that might await him in Vaskandar, and glanced at the board in front of him. Basira had moved her knight into position near his king, leaving him precious few moves still available. “Oh.”

“Your move.”

“Right, right, I'll just…” he moved the king a space to the left. It didn't really get him out of danger, but it put off the inevitable for another turn.

Basira laughed. “Wow, you're not very good at chess, are you?” She shifted a bishop, sliding it into a new path to cut off his king's escape route. “Checkmate.”

“Oh,” he said again, glancing over the board in surprise. He certainly wasn't an expert at the game, but he was usually better than this. “Sorry, just a bit distracted… nice move, there. I didn't see that coming.”

“Don't think you'd see a brick headed at your face, way you keep drifting off.” This was from Daisy, who was sitting next to Basira reading a book while they played. The rest of the escort was scattered around the inn’s common room or had already headed to bed. Their presence was more or less a formality, after all: Basira's artificery devises, combined with Daisy's well-known skill in combat, were more than enough protection to get Martin to the border safely. Still, it helped the look of the thing to have a full escort.

“Sorry,” Martin said again. “I'm just getting lost in all that existential dread again.” He grinned a little, trying to make a joke of it.

Basira chuckled and reached across the table to pat him on the shoulder. “Cheer up. You've got a couple days left before we hit the border, and probably a day or so after that still before you actually have to meet the Eye Lord, unless he plans on escorting you to his castle himself. And you've got an invitation, so you might even get a warm welcome.”

Martin snorted at that, remembering the way Lord Sims had spoken to him after his identity was revealed. He'd be happy enough with any greeting that didn't involve overt disdain and spilling out his deepest secrets. Still, though… “It's not actually the Lord of Eyes I'm worried about? I mean, I am, but also… we're crossing the border  _ really  _ close to the Lady of Masks’ territory and, well…”

Basira nodded. “And  _ she's _ actually preparing to attack us.”

“Sending raiding parties over the border, too.”

“We can handle the Lady of Masks.” Daisy again, sounding almost affronted that Martin didn't believe it. “We'll get you safe to the border, don't worry.”

Martin tried to be comforted by this, he really did. But the plain fact of the matter was that Daisy was almost as terrifying as a Witch Lord, and when she said they'd keep him safe it sounded more like a threat than a promise. He smiled nervously. 

“Thanks?”

“Seriously, Martin. You can relax for the next few days at least.” Basira stood up, stretching. “I'm going to head to bed, we've got an early start tomorrow.” She turned to Daisy. “Coming, love?”

Daisy shook her head, gesturing to her book. “Got a chapter to finish first.”

“Goodnight, then.” Basira leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. Martin looked away, suppressing a smile. He would never have guessed, upon meeting the two of them, just how gentle they were with each other. He'd seen them around the Mews before, of course, but they were usually busy talking or sparring with each other, honing their combat skills. He'd been rather intimidated by them, truth be told, the artificer and her Falconer wife; when Tim said they'd be leading his guard on the road he'd prepared himself for lots of glaring and stoic silences. 

Basira had dispelled this notion within an hour of setting off, and they'd formed the sort of weirdly open friendship one does when they are stuck with no one else to talk to for hours on end. Daisy… well, she was still intimidating. But in moments like these her guard dropped entirely, and Martin could see the softness and affection in the way she leaned into her wife's kiss, one hand resting on Basira's hip to draw her closer.

They pulled apart, and Basira waved at Martin before heading for the stairs at the back of the room. He cleared away the chess board, returning it to the innkeeper. The man took it with a stiff nod and a “Thank you, m'lord,” before hurrying away. Martin sighed. 

He didn't think he was going to die, not really. Lord Sims might not be the nicest person in the world, and Martin certainly wasn't looking forward to trying to negotiate an alliance with him, but he didn't seem like a murderer. It would be a lot easier to trust his own reasoning on the matter if people didn't insist on treating him like a condemned man. 

Ruminating on it wasn't going to help, though, and they  _ did  _ have an early start tomorrow. He went to bed.

~~~~~

The next few days passed quietly. Basira split her time between riding in the coach with Martin and taking to horseback with the rest of the escort, and Martin actually managed to calm down enough to pass the time reading. 

On the afternoon of the third day they reached the fortress guarding the border. It was a cold place, just a few stone buildings surrounded by a thick wall, overlooking the mountain pass that served as a link between the Serene Empire and the Vaskandran wilderness. Martin shivered as he looked across the border. There was thick woodland on either side, marching on without heed to national boundaries, but… there was something  _ off _ about the trees on the Vaskandran side. He remembered what Tim had said about the land itself being alive, and turned away with a shudder. He really  _ didn't  _ want to find out what that meant. 

They were greeted by the captain of the outpost, who directed the members of Martin's escort to the rooms they would be staying in while he was across the border. They would be waiting here for his return, while he went on under the supervision of guards from the Eye Lord's army. Ostensibly the Vaskandran escort was for his safety, but he couldn't help thinking it felt a bit like being taken prisoner. 

The captain assured him that the Vaskandran party had sent word they were on their way, and he waited on the parapet for their arrival, anxiously watching the road for any sign of movement. Basira and Daisy joined him after a while, though they didn't speak. He found it rather comforting to have them near, even so. 

When the Vaskandran escort arrived, they did so in style. A dozen figures on horseback surrounded a gleaming black coach, sweeping out of the forest at a canter and riding on to the fortress gates without pausing. Their leader wore full platemail armour, a sword strapped to their side and plumes streaming from their helmet. 

Basira nudged Martin as they hurried down to the courtyard to meet them. 

“Still got that puzzle sphere?”

“What? Oh, yeah.” He fumbled it out of his pocket. “I still haven't solved it, though.”

“Give it here.” She began flicking the crystals around the wires, shifting them into a new pattern. The sphere began to glow as they reached the courtyard, and she pulled a new crystal - a thick chunk of obsidian - out of her pocket, shoving it into the middle of the wires. Then she flicked one of the small crystals back out of place, and the glowing stopped. She handed it back to Martin.

“What did you do to it?”

“Supercharged it.” The Vaskandran party was riding into the courtyard, armour jingling in counterpoint to the clack of the horses' hooves. Basira and Daisy moved to stand protectively on either side of Martin. One of Daisy's hands drifted to the pistol she carried at her side. “If you flick  _ this  _ crystal-” she pointed “-onto  _ that  _ wire, it'll light up like a sun for about ten seconds. Cover your eyes before you do, and it should blind anyone trying to hurt you long enough for you to get a head start at running away.”

Martin swallowed, throat suddenly tight with nerves. He shoved the ball back into his pocket, hoping against hope he'd never have to use it. “Thanks.”

The leader of the Vaskandrans dismounted, their boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. They walked with a confident swagger as they approached, and Martin felt Basira and Daisy tense next to him, preparing for a fight. 

The Vaskandran stopped a few feet away, taking off the plumed helmet and tucking it under one arm. Then she grinned brightly, holding out a hand to shake as she introduced herself. 

“Hello! I'm General Barker, but you can call me Georgie. Nice to meet you!”


	6. The General

“So you're not mage marked, then?”

“Nope.” Georgie steered her horse around a fallen branch in the road, then back over to the coach window to talk to Martin. “Should I be?”

“No, it's just… well, from what I've heard of Witch Lords, they don't think much of people who aren't marked.” They were traveling through thick forest, dark and imposing. The trees were growing close enough that Martin couldn't see more than five feet off the road in either direction, and all the horror stories he'd heard about Vaskandar were rising in his mind. He couldn't shake the feeling he was being watched. 

“Jon's not like that.”

“How so?”

“He's just not.” She gave him an odd look. “You've got the wrong idea about Vaskandar if you think magic is all that matters here. Maybe to someone like the Mask Lady, who's only interested in power, but for Jon… as long as you're good at what you do, he doesn't care if you're mage marked or not. Just that you get the job done.”

“Oh.” Martin had a hard time wrapping his head around this. He had been raised to believe that those without the mage mark were little better than slaves in Vaskandar, so to find someone like Georgie leading the Eye Lord's army was almost incomprehensible. 

“Besides,” she grinned. “Jon’s clearly a fan of  _ you, _ and you’re not marked.” 

“What?”

“Oh come on. You think he invites just anyone to visit? You must have really hit it off with him.”

Martin thought about this, trying to line it up with his own memories of an aloof lord with no respect for personal privacy. 

“I think maybe he's just trying to be polite.”

Georgie made a noncommittal noise, letting the subject drop. Martin shook his head. “Hit it off” indeed. If that was what it was like to be on a Witch Lord's good side, he'd hate to face one as an enemy. 

They rode on in silence for a while, following the road. Occasionally Georgie would turn around to check on the basket perched on the back of her saddle, but Martin never got a good look at what was in it. Until, that is, she made a soft cooing noise, said “Finally awake, are you?” and pulled a giant, fluffy orange cat out of it and onto her lap. 

It was not what Martin had been expecting to see.

“Wh- you have a cat in there?”

She smiled. “Of course. He gets lonely if I leave him behind.” Her tone changed to the universal I'm-talking-to-a-small-animal-and-I-think-they're-the-cutest-thing-in-the-world pitch. “Don't you? You get lonely? Yes you do, Jon never gives you enough attention, does he.” The cat meowed, and started to purr.

“Oh. And he… he doesn't mind the, the horses, and all?”

“Nope, the Admiral was practically raised in the saddle. I've had him since he was a kitten.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “Your cat's name is the Admiral?”

“What? No, his  _ title  _ is the Admiral. He's my commanding officer.”

Okay, this  _ had  _ to be a joke. “Your cat is your commanding officer.”

“Yep, he runs the army. You seem surprised.”

“I just…” Well, this  _ was _ Vaskandar. “I mean, he doesn't  _ really  _ run the army, though, does he? He  _ is  _ a cat, not a, a shapeshifter or something?”

Georgie laughed, and Martin joined in. There was something open about her laugh that invited you to share the joke, even if it was you she was laughing at.

“No, he's just a cat. As the highest-ranking human in the army, I give all the orders.” She scratched behind the Admiral's ears. “He does technically outrank me, though. I even made Jon sign a document confirming it, so it's official.”

“Huh.” It was hard to line up everything Georgie was saying about Lord Sims with the man Martin had met. If he didn't know any better, he'd swear they were talking about two different people. 

“And are there many high-ranking animals in the Eye Lord's army?”

Georgie laughed again. Martin found himself liking her already, even though they had only just met. 

“He's the only one. Though I did consider promoting an owl once, just to make fun of Jon.”

“I don't get it.”

“Oh, he uses them all the time to keep track of things around here. I figured, if they're going to be watching all the time they might as well be official sentries, you know? But I didn't end up doing it.”

“What do you mean, they're watching all the time?”

“Look.” She pointed into the trees. It took Martin a moment to spot what she was indicating, but then he saw it, fluttering between the branches. A barn owl, large and brown, keeping pace with the horses as they traveled. He swallowed. And he'd almost managed to convince himself he was imagining the feeling of being watched, too.

“Has that been there the whole time?”

“Yeah, Jon likes to keep an eye on things. Apparently owls are easier than just watching himself. It'll report back to him if anything goes wrong on the road, so he can send reinforcements.”

“Oh.” That sounded innocent enough, but now that Martin was aware of it he couldn't shake the uneasiness that arose from the owl's presence. He had always been self-conscious in public, and to know someone could be watching his every action was uncomfortable, to say the least. It didn't help that he'd never seen an owl flying in the middle of the day, either.

They spent the night in a small town near the edge of the road. Martin was surprised to see how welcoming the inhabitants were to a military escort passing through. Several of them seemed to know Georgie personally, and Martin was left on his own to explore as she chatted with them. 

He didn't wander far, fear of what might be lurking in the forest outweighing his curiosity. The town seemed rather prosperous, with well-kept streets and houses in good repair. He didn't see any fields, but a few smaller roads leading off into the woods and the abundance of fresh produce suggested that farming might be happening somewhere nearby. 

He was rapidly revising his ideas about the Vaskandran economy, the more he saw of the place. Despite - or perhaps, he allowed himself to speculate, because of - having a Witch Lord as a ruler, the people in this land seemed to be flourishing, mage marked or not.

There was a rustling in a tree above his head, and Martin looked up to see an owl fluttering in to land on a branch. He shivered, acutely aware that he was being watched. Flourishing, maybe. But at what cost?

He went inside.

~~~~~

The journey only took a few days. It was pleasant enough, talking with Georgie and the other members of the escort, but Martin couldn't shake a growing fear over his destination. He was going to have to face Lord Sims again. He was going to face the man who pulled his secrets from him with a single question, who could know all his weaknesses and insecurities with a look, who, despite this, pretended to be an ordinary man for the pleasure of making a fool out of those who didn't see through his lies. And he was going to have to convince him to join an alliance he had already declined, or else everything Martin loved would get destroyed in an apocalyptic war.

The feeling of being watched grew stronger as they traveled, and Martin spotted several more owls following their every move. 

Georgie knocked on the window frame to get his attention. 

“Almost there. You might want to look ahead.” She pointed at the road. “You’ll get your first sight of the place right around this corner.” 

Martin poked his head out the window as the coach made the turn, and gasped. The building was huge. Or… not. There were larger buildings in Raverra, Martin was certain of it, but there was a solidity to this place that made it stand out starkly from the forest around it. It was old stone, huge blocks of granite covered in creeping ivy and moss. A wide staircase led up to a set of dark wooden double doors, and carved into the lintel above were three words:

_ Vigilo. Opperior. Audio. _

There were far more windows than Martin would have thought necessary for such a building, staring out into the forest in every direction. Georgie leaned over to him with a small, conspiratorial smile, and spoke in a whisper.

“Welcome to the Magnus Estate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Admirals belong in the Navy. I'm fudging the ranks for the sake of the joke, okay?


	7. The Magnus Estate

Lord Sims was waiting at the foot of the steps when the carriage pulled up. His attire was more casual than the finery he had been wearing at the festival, but there was still a certain formality to the cut of the dark jacket he wore. He stood stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, and nodded at Georgie when she dismounted. 

“Any trouble on the road?”

“No.” She turned, lifted the Admiral from his basket. “Have you been standing out here all morning? I  _ know _ I didn't send word ahead that we were close.”

“I saw you coming.”

“Of course you did.” Her voice was teasing.

Martin hesitated before opening the carriage door. He wasn't quite sure of the etiquette of the situation. In Raverra there would be a porter to open doors and announce visiting nobles, but Lord Sims  _ had _ said things were less formal in Vaskandar…

He had reached a decision and was opening the door when he noticed the Admiral had wandered over to Lord Sims. The man glanced down with a fond smile, then bent over to scratch the cat behind the ears. 

“And what say you, Admiral? Was the trip okay? Did the General do her job well?”

The sight of a Witch Lord talking to a cat was shocking enough that Martin temporarily forgot what he was doing. He missed his footing and stumbled out of the carriage, barely managing to catch himself on the doorframe and avoid falling over entirely. When he looked up, Georgie and Lord Sims were both staring at him. 

“All right there, Martin?” Georgie asked. 

“I- I'm fine.” Martin yanked at the hem of his jacket, trying to straighten the wrinkles. Not the best way to make an entrance, all things considered. 

Lord Sims stepped forward, holding out a hand to shake for a second before dropping it and giving a more formal inclination of his head. 

“Lord Blackwood. I'm honored you accepted my invitation. Welcome to the Magnus Estate.” His tone was cool, and it actually reassured Martin somewhat - this was the man he had prepared to meet, a cold and calculating Lord he would need to tread carefully around or risk incurring his ire. Not a man who talked to cats. 

Martin bowed. “It was an honor to be invited, Lord Sims. I look forward to studying the texts in your Archives.”

“That can be arranged. I'll give you a brief tour of the layout today, and you can have free rein of the place tomorrow. I'm sure you'll need some time to rest first after so long on the road.”

“Thank you.”

With that, Lord Sims turned around again, calling Georgie's attention back from where she was conversing with the other members of the escort. 

“Georgie. You got the luggage, the carriage, all that?”

“Sure thing, Jon. Take the Admiral with you, though, I don't want to bring him out to the stables.”

“Will do.”

He bent to pick the cat off the ground, draping him over one shoulder and leaving his other arm free. Martin watched the entire exchange with raised eyebrows. The cool tone dropped entirely from Lord Sims’ voice when he was talking to Georgie, and there was a relaxed fluidity to his movements that was entirely missing from his interactions with Martin. 

Case in point, as the soldiers started unloading Martin's luggage and guiding the horses on a path around the edge of the building, Lord Sims turned back to Martin and gestured stiffly toward the entrance to the building.

“If you would follow me, Lord Blackwood?”

Martin did, frowning slightly. It seemed Lord Sims wasn't a terrifying monster to  _ everyone _ he met, then. He just hated Martin in specific. 

It wasn't much of a consolation.

~~~~~

The tour was - well, confusing, to say the least. It seemed Martin's judgement about the size of the place hadn't been wrong. Lord Sims led him through passageways and up staircases, pointing out various rooms and locations he seemed to expect Martin to remember. There was no consistency to the place - some of the rooms were small reading nooks, barely more than glorified closets, while at least one of the halls they passed through was large enough to fit a hundred guests comfortably. Martin got the sense it had never fulfilled its purpose in this endeavor; the building was too quiet to be a home for crowds. 

There was one consistency to the chaos, though, and the farther they travelled into the building the more it intruded upon Martin's thoughts, making the back of his neck itch with unease. 

The place was filled with eyes.

Carved into doorways, embroidered on furniture, painted and hung in frames on the walls - they were everywhere, staring at him from every angle. Some of them had painted or carved mage marks, some did not; all of them were deeply unnerving. 

Even so, he thought he was doing a good job of hiding his discomfort. That is, until Lord Sims stopped in the middle of pointing out the stairs down to the main kitchen and looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Something the matter, Lord Blackwood?”

His tone was coldly amused. Martin took a deep breath to steady himself, then forced a smile.

“Not at all. You have a very interesting taste in decoration, is all.”

“Ah.” Lord Sims glanced at the walls, grimacing. “A hold-over from my predecessors, I'm afraid. They've been here since the Estate was built. Try not to mind them; you'll stop noticing after a few days.”

“Of course.” Martin hunched his shoulders slightly, trying to block out the feeling of being watched - they were just decorations, they couldn't  _ actually _ see him. And any magical spying from the Eye Lord would be pretty useless at the moment, given that they were standing less than two feet apart in the hall. Still and all though… 

“Shall we carry on?”

Lord Sims took him up another staircase, heading for one of the upper floors. He gave Martin a curious look as they ascended, but waited until they reached the top before speaking.

“I must admit I was surprised you accepted my invitation. I had thought I rather put you off at the spring festival.” 

_ You did, rather, _ Martin thought but did not say. He was here as a diplomat, after all. Securing an alliance was far more important than any personal grudges he might hold. 

“How could I turn it down? The chance to see all the old records, learn the history of Vaskandar… I can't say I intended to accept at first, but I was… intrigued by the opportunity.”

Lord Sims smiled, and for a second Martin could nearly forget how powerful he was. In a moment like this, he almost seemed like a normal man, content simply to have found someone who shared his passions. 

“I'm glad. I know Raverrans don't hold the best opinions of me and my kind, but it's always a pleasure to meet a fellow scholar.”

Well. That was an opportunity if Martin had ever heard one. Now he just needed to - how had Tim put it? - commence diplomatic bullshit.

“Well, opinions can be changed. The Council may not have many scholars on it, but I'm sure they'd be delighted at an opportunity to improve relations between yourself and the Empire.”

The Witch Lord snorted. “I'd be surprised if they even gave scholarly pursuits a moment's thought right now. Last I heard, they were rather busy with other concerns.”

“There are other ways to form a connection than the exchange of information, my lord.”

His mouth quirked in a smile. “Is the Council looking to marry off one of their number? I'm flattered, but I'm afraid I shall have to decline the offer, marriages of convenience have never appealed to me.”

Martin tripped over his own feet in shock. That was either a serious misreading of the situation or… the Witch Lord had been trying to tell a  _ joke. _

He managed to regain his balance without falling, but was left flustered and thrown off the pace. Instead of responding with a cool, diplomatic rebuttal that could advance the conversation without showing his hand, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I meant more of an exchange of troops, actually.”

Lord Sims stopped in his tracks. The Admiral meowed in protest at the jolting halt, and after a minute was lifted gently off a stiff shoulder and placed on the ground. 

“Off you go, Admiral. Plenty of mice to chase now you're back home.”

The cat flicked his tail in an affronted manner and scampered off, and then, finally, Lord Sims straightened and turned to face Martin.

“I'm sorry,” he said, in a voice entirely devoid of emotion. “I was under the impression I had invited you here as a scholar, not a diplomat.”

Martin swallowed nervously. He was suddenly very aware of how far from home he was. How far from help. He fingered the wire ball in his pocket, wondering how much time the flare could buy him if he had to run. Nowhere near long enough, and he wouldn't be able to find his way back to the border anyway. He had to talk his way out of this. 

“I am here as a scholar.” He took a deep breath, sending a prayer to the Grace of Courage to give him the strength to not turn and run from that cool gaze. “But I am also here as a diplomat. The Council has asked me to try to convince you to change your mind about forming an alliance; believe me when I say I would not be bringing the matter up if I had any other choice.” 

“You mean you wouldn't be here if there were any other choice.”

There was no lying in the face of that stare. Martin set his jaw and met the Witch Lord's eyes, determined not to flinch under the cold silver gleam of his mage mark. 

After a moment Lord Sims sighed, and looked away. “I am sorry for the danger that is facing your Empire. Truly. But I will not risk the safety of my own lands fighting a war that has nothing to do with me.”

“How can you say it has nothing to do with you?” Martin shook his head, surprised by the emotion in his own voice. “It is  _ your _ neighbors who are fighting, the lands on  _ your _ borders that will be ravaged in the conflict. How is that not your concern?”

“I hold enough power among the Witch Lords that they will not attack me unprovoked.”

“Then use that power for good!” Martin took a step forward, forgetting his fear in his desperation to make his case. “Lives will be lost, Lord Sims, innocent lives! If you have so much power, can you not stop the fighting before it begins? Tell the other Witch Lords to leave the Empire alone! Surely they would listen to you.”

Lord Sims gave a wry smile. “One might. Perhaps even two. But there is no force on earth strong enough to dissuade four Witch Lords all set on the same goal, and there are at least that many ranged against you.”

“Four?” Martin's eyes went wide, and he could feel his knees go weak from shock. “N-no, it's two, only two, Tim said…”

“I'm sorry.” And he did genuinely look sorry for it. “But the Lady of Ink and the Lord of Solitude have joined with the Mask and the Worm. And I will not dare go against them in this matter. It is too dangerous for myself, and for the people who rely on me for protection.”

Martin was hyperventilating, his eyes wet with tears. “B-but…” This was it, then. The Serene Empire was doomed. Four Witch Lords against them, and no allies. He had failed. 

“Lord Blackwood?” There was a hand on his shoulder; he flinched away instinctively.

“Don't touch me!”

Lord Sims inhaled sharply, drawing his hand back. “My apologies.”

Martin wiped angrily at his eyes, trying to pull himself back together. 

“N-no, it's- it's fine.” It was  _ not _ fine, and under normal circumstances Martin would have appreciated the gesture of comfort. But not now. Not from the man who was dooming Raverra by his inaction. He shoved aside the small voice in the back of his head saying Lord Sims’ decision was a rational one, and forced himself to calm down. “Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?”

“I'm afraid not. You are, of course, welcome to stay on at the Estate as a guest, but I would understand if you wish to return to your Empire immediately to pass on the news.”

And  _ that  _ was a whole different problem, one that Martin hadn't even considered. How was he supposed to tell the Council he had failed? Then again… perhaps he needn't return entirely empty-handed. 

“You said you have texts in your Archives going back over a thousand years?”

Lord Sims blinked at the change in topic. “Yes. All the way back to before the Witch Lords rose to power.”

“So if anyone had defeated one of them in battle before, there would be a record of it?”

He nodded in sudden understanding. “Presumably. There are certainly records of Witch Lords killing each other, and if it had ever been managed by an outside force it would have been noted. I do not know of any specific instances, however.”

“I don't mind searching.”

“Alright then.” Lord Sims gave him an appraising look. “I will aid you in your search if I can; just because I will not go against my fellows does not mean I agree with what they are doing. However, if you plan to stay I must request that you do not try to convince me to join your war again.”

That was fair enough - Martin hadn't held out much hope for success on that front anyway. “I think I can manage that.”

“Good. We have a deal, then.” The Witch Lord stuck out his hand, and Martin shook it. “I'd suggest you don't start until tomorrow, but if you'd like to see the Archives now I can finish showing you around?”

“Lead the way, Lord Sims.”


	8. The Archives

The Archives were… amazing. Martin looked around himself in a daze, eyes wide as he tried to take it all in at once. He had never seen so many books in one place before. The collection was contained in a single huge room, with shelves in endless lines stretching off into the distance and reaching up to the ceiling high above. 

Lord Sims gestured dramatically around himself, taking in the entire room with a sweep of his hand. “Here you have it; my pet project, and my pride and joy: the Magnus Archives.” 

They had entered through a set of heavy double doors near one of the outer walls. Martin was surprised to see there were windows here as well, letting the late afternoon light stream in through the panes to fall on the ancient books. Every library he had seen in the past had been lit only by faint luminaries to avoid bleaching the books; then again, Vaskandran magic tended more toward manipulating living things than dealing in artificery, and the number of luminaries required to light a place like this would be next to impossible to come by. The natural light lent a dreamlike air to the room, capturing floating motes of dust in beams of sunlight like snow. 

“It’s… beautiful.” Martin couldn’t hide the wonder in his voice. 

“Thank you.” Lord Sims stood quietly for a moment, letting him drink in the atmosphere of the place; then he indicated a path through the shelves with a tilt of his head. “I’ll show you the basic layout.”

As he led Martin through the endless maze of shelves, Lord Sims maintained a running commentary on the areas they passed. 

“Over there is mainly academic texts - the botany and zoology of the local area are heavily represented. This area contains biographies of great historical figures - you may have some luck searching through here, as there are accounts of the lives of previous Witch Lords, but I would suggest beginning your search in the section behind it - that's where the more general history texts are stored.” He gestured off into the distance, then turned sharply right into a smaller area of shelving. The books here had brighter colors on their spines, and appeared much more well-worn.

“The fictional section. Unfortunately small at the moment, though we have found some rather nice collections of old poetry, if that's something that interests you.”

Martin perked up at that, breaking from his awed daze. “Oh! Oh, yes, actually, I love poetry.”

“Really?” Lord Sims gave him a peculiar look - Martin couldn't quite tell if it was disdainful or merely surprised. “In that case feel free to peruse at your leisure. I haven't had a chance to examine them too closely myself, but I imagine you'll be able to find something that suits your fancy.”

They exited the fictional section, entering an area of shelves filled with boxes instead of books. 

“Old loose-leaf documents. Mostly records of weather patterns, harvest yield, and the like. Some more interesting, but probably not worth your time to pick through.”

Lord Sims stopped as they passed the last line of box-filled shelves, coming to a halt at some invisible boundary. They were less than halfway across the room, but the shelves from here on out had a different feel to them. Books were crammed onto shelves with no rhyme or reason, mingling with loose paper and the occasional scroll. It had an… untamed feeling to it. Martin would never have thought that word could be applied to books.

“And, finally, the unsorted section.” Lord Sims sighed, shaking his head. “You'll have no luck here, I'm afraid. You're as likely to turn up a hundred-year-old shopping list as anything even remotely resembling a history. I've been trying to organize it, but, well...”

“That'd take several lifetimes?” Martin hazarded, then immediately bit his tongue. Probably best not to interrupt a Witch Lord, even if he was being friendly. 

But Lord Sims just chuckled. “Precisely. I do apologize for the condition the place is in. My predecessor as Eye Lord, Gertrude, left the Archives in quite a state of disarray.”

“No need for an apology, Lord Sims. Something tells me I'll have more than enough to occupy my time just with the history section alone.”

The man blinked, the quick flicker of his eyelids making the silver mage mark in his eyes seem to flash. “I'm sure you will… Lord Blackwood.” He took a step forward, crossing that invisible boundary into the untamed chaos on the other side. “There's another door on the opposite side of the Archives - it's closer to the rooms you will be staying in, so we can cut through the unsorted section as a shortcut.”

He set off without a glance back, and Martin followed.

They had only proceeded past a few more rows of shelves when Lord Sims glanced around a corner and stopped, abruptly. 

“There you are. Where have you been?”

“Nice to see you too, Jon.” The voice was sarcastic, but surprisingly friendly for the tone. Martin took a few steps forward, moving around Lord Sims to get a look at the person he was talking to. 

“You said you'd wait outside with me.”

The first thing Martin processed about the man sitting in front of him was the careless shrug. The next was the heavy book in his hands, held open at a place about halfway through. The rest of the scene was absorbed in a rush - the dark tunic, the long black leather coat draped over his legs as a blanket with, incongruously, brightly knit orange socks poking out where it didn't quite cover his feet. His hair was black as well, though Martin could see a lighter brown at the roots where it had grown since being dyed. There were tattoos on his knuckles, though Martin couldn't make out their design, and his eyes were a piercing blue-on-blue: ice blue irises with a sapphire mage mark around the pupil. 

He flicked those eyes to Martin, raising his eyebrows slightly. 

“Forgot, sorry. You're our guest, then?”

Martin blinked, surprised at being addressed so suddenly. “Um, yeah, I, uh-”

Lord Sims cut him off. “This is Lord Blackwood. Lord Blackwood, let me introduce you to Prince Gerard Keay.”

Prince? Martin hadn't thought there  _ were  _ any princes anymore, not even in Vaskandar. He bowed hastily. “Your Highness.”

He was waved off with a laugh. “Please, Lord Blackwood, call me Gerry. The whole ‘prince’ thing was a fancy of my mother's - not a tradition I care to carry on.”

Martin smiled back at him - he knew how it was to try and distance oneself from one's parents. “It's nice to meet you, Gerry. And please, call me Martin.”

“Nice to meet you too, Martin. How do you like Vaskandar so far?”

“I was just showing him around the Archives,” Lord Sims interrupted. There was a trace of annoyance in his voice, though what it was directed at was impossible for Martin to judge. 

Gerry shot him a glance at the interruption and seemed about to say something, but whatever he read in the Witch Lord's face was enough to make him reconsider. 

“You know, I still don't think we should be calling this place an Archive. It's really more of a library, when you think about it.”

Lord Sims rolled his eyes at the change of topic, but the annoyance in his voice faded to a long-suffering amusement he responded. “Not this again.”

“Just saying, you take a big room, fill it with books, you've got yourself a library. Wouldn't you say, Jon? That  _ is _ the definition, yes?”

"Yes, but in addition to the books we have  _ archived _ the official documents of this land going back over a thousand years, which are kept here for storage purposes and not open to the general public and therefore it is not a library,  _ Gerry."  _ The rapidity with which the argument was delivered implied this was a conversation they had had many times before. 

"A library can have archived documents in it,” Gerry countered.

"And an Archive can have books."

“What do you think, Martin?” Gerry turned to him with a sudden grin. “Settle our little semantic dispute.”

“Oh, I, um.” Martin, who had been watching the argument in more than a little confusion, floundered. “I'm not sure? I mean, I've never actually seen a proper Archive before, just libraries, so…”

“Gertrude called it the Archives, I'm just following in her footsteps.” Lord Sims addressed Gerry as if Martin hadn't even spoken.

“Right, because that's always  _ such _ a good idea.”

The Witch Lord raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, smiling slightly. “No comment.”

Gerry laughed, then turned to Martin. “Gertrude Robinson was the previous Eye Lord. We had some… differences of opinion, when she was in charge.”

“Oh, yes. Lord Sims mentioned her earlier.”

“Really?” Gerry looked back to the Witch Lord with a disappointed frown. “You told him about  _ Gertrude, _ but not me?”

“I'm afraid words alone couldn't do you justice, my friend.” This was delivered in a theatrically dramatic tone; once again, Martin found himself revising his view of the man. This casual banter would have been extraordinarily out of place among Raverran nobles, but it seemed quite a normal occurrence between the Vaskandrans. Martin couldn't help thinking of his own interactions with Tim and Sasha. He was used to this level of familiarity with the people he trusted and had known for years; he just wouldn't have expected it among princes and lords. 

Still. However comfortable Lord Sims and Gerry were around each other, Martin couldn't help feeling rather out of place. 

This feeling was not helped by Lord Sims gesturing abruptly to him and nodding toward the far end of the Archives. “In any case, I  _ was  _ showing Lord Blackwood around. Unless there's anything else you wish to argue about, we should continue.”

He spoke as if Martin wasn't even there. That, and the slight emphasis he kept adding to 'Lord Blackwood,' set Martin on edge again, bringing back all the anxieties that had been banished with the wonder of seeing the Archives.

Gerry, at least, acknowledged him. “I'm sure we'll find things to fight about later, Jon. For now, happy exploring. It was wonderful to meet you, Martin. Hopefully we'll get some time to get better acquainted while you're here.”

“Likewise. It was nice to meet you, Gerry.” Martin took some satisfaction in the Witch Lord's obvious annoyance at the familiarity, despite the likelihood that it would have negative repercussions on his own welcome at the Estate. He turned, pasting on a forcefully cheery smile. “Lead the way,  _ Lord Sims.” _

“Right.” The man's mouth tightened slightly, and Martin regretted the dig immediately. Better to swallow his own pride than risk endangering the deal they had struck. If he wasn't going to get an ally out of this visit, he  _ needed  _ access to the histories. “This way,  _ Lord Blackwood.” _

Gerry waved them off with an amused grin, and they continued across the room.

Martin walked a few steps behind Lord Sims. He could see the tension in the man's shoulders, his posture stiff and formal. A glance down confirmed he was clenching and unclenching a fist, seemingly unaware he was doing so. Martin bit his lip nervously. He hadn't  _ meant  _ to set the Witch Lord off again so soon after striking their deal - he  _ needed  _ this, needed whatever small chance he might gain for Raverra from the information stored in this Archive. He couldn't risk falling onto the man's bad side, and he was precariously close to doing so. 

It was just… Lord Sims  _ knew  _ about his father. He  _ knew  _ the man had left,  _ knew _ that Martin was unqualified because of it - it was one thing to call him by his official title, but to keep  _ emphasizing _ it like that-

It was just driving home the fact that Martin was unfit for the sort of negotiations he had been sent here to attempt, and that someone better qualified might have actually succeeded in forming an alliance. It went beyond propriety, and became simply  _ rude. _ Martin figured he could be justified a little pettiness when faced with that. 

Justified or not, it didn't stop the fear from returning as they continued their silent walk through the halls of the Estate, the Witch Lord lost in his own dark thoughts. Surely, someone as powerful as he could afford to be rude and expect those around him to just deal with it. Surely, the consequences for speaking out were far worse. 

Lord Sims stopped abruptly in front of a solid wooden door, turning on his heel to face Martin. Martin jumped.

“This is where you'll be staying.” He gestured at the door. “Your baggage should already be inside. There's a bell pull on the wall, don't hesitate to use it if you need anything, and someone will bring you something to eat soon. We don't tend to do full formal dinners here. You'll be on your own for breakfast tomorrow, though. I'm sure you remember where the kitchens are.”

Martin did, indeed, remember where the kitchens were. He was also grateful he wouldn't have to face anyone for dinner tonight, as he was already overwhelmed with the events of the day. Still, he found his tongue frozen to the roof of his mouth when he tried to say all that, caught somewhere between fear and shock and distracted thoughts, and all he managed to reply with was a stiff nod. 

His discomfort must have shown on his face. Lord Sims frowned at him for a minute, then sighed. All the stiffness bled from him in that huff of breath, his hands relaxing by his sides and his shoulders slumping. He seemed to have come to some sort of decision, though for the life of him, Martin couldn't guess what it was. 

“Hey.” Lord Sims leaned forward slightly, making sure to catch his eye. “It's going to be alright, okay? The Serene Empire's fought off Witch Lords without my help before, you'll do it again.”

It was Martin's turn to frown. Was the man trying to…  _ comfort _ him?

“Even if you don't find anything in the Archives to help, I'm sure your doge has another plan. I can't imagine that he'd place the  _ entire  _ fate of Raverra on your shoulders.”

“Why, because I'm  _ unqualified?” _

Grace of Wisdom, why did he say that? What a way to break his silence. Martin winced as soon as the words left his mouth, and the Witch Lord jolted back as well. 

“N-no, that's not- I'm just trying- ” he took a deep breath. “Lord Blackwood… allow me to offer you a formal apology for the…  _ incident _ at the spring festival. I am not normally…” He paused; began again. “I thought you would say something about court intrigue - politics or gossip. Had I known your deepest secret was something so… personal, I would not have asked.”

His voice was quiet and sincere, his eyes downcast. Martin took a deep, slow breath, giving himself time to think before replying. He'd messed up so many times already today. He couldn't afford to screw this one up as well.

Lord Sims’ apology  _ seemed _ genuine, at least. He hadn't denied that what he had done was wrong, hadn't tried to downplay the incident or make it seem like Martin was overreacting. Indeed, he'd admitted full fault in the matter, and his reasoning behind his actions was… quite sensible, to be honest. For most members of the court, petty gossip  _ would _ be their biggest secret. It was the currency Raverran politics ran on, after all.

The Witch Lord cinched his case by stating, in a voice solemn enough to befit a funeral: “It won't happen again.”

Martin nodded. “I accept your apology, Lord Sims. The incident was unfortunate, but I will not hold it against you in the future, so long as you do not use the information you learned against me.”

Lord Sims’ eyes widened briefly. “I can assure you, the thought never crossed my mind.”

“Good.”

Silence fell, and they stood there awkwardly for a few moments, avoiding each others’ eyes. Then Lord Sims straightened, nodding briskly at Martin. 

“I shouldn't keep you, I'm sure you'll want to get settled in before it gets too late. Goodnight, Lord Blackwood.”

He began to turn, and Martin made another hasty decision. If they were going to be moving past the incident at the festival… well, they should move past the formalities that had arisen from the incident as well.

“Wait. You can - that is, I'd prefer if you called me Martin.”

Lord Sims stopped, turned back to face Martin with one eyebrow raised. 

“Sorry?”

“It's just-” he waved a hand through the air. “Lord Blackwood was my father. I'd rather not be associated with that.”

Lord Sims’ face did something odd - it looked like both eyebrows tried to jump off his face in shock before quickly dropping back to a worried frown.

“Oh. I- Lor- ” he paused. “M- Martin. I truly am sorry about that.”

Martin shook his head, dismissing the apology. “It's behind us. This has nothing to do with what happened at the festival, I just…”

“Of course. Martin.” There was a sudden energy to Lord Sims’ movements; he raised a hand to scratch at his opposite arm in a nervous spasm, and the corner of his mouth seemed dangerously close to twitching into a smile. “And… well, I  _ do _ generally prefer to go by Jon. If, if you're comfortable with that?”

He seemed almost… hopeful. Martin was surprised by that, and by how easy it was to slip back into calling one of the most powerful people on the continent by his first name.

“I- yes. Yes. I can do that. Goodnight, Jon.” 

He really  _ did  _ smile, this time, and Martin suddenly found that he was much happier calling the Witch Lord ‘Jon’ than he had ever been with ‘Lord Sims.’

“Goodnight, Martin.”


	9. Research

Martin woke early. Pale dawn light was seeping into the room past the curtains that covered the windows, and there was a slight chill in the air despite the season. Vaskandar's climate was far removed from the mild weather of Raverra; without the sea nearby to regulate shifts in temperature, nights were cold even in summer. 

He shivered, pulling on a thick sweater before leaving the room. Thankfully, geographical knowledge was rather more readily available than information on the Witch Lords themselves, and he had packed accordingly. 

The hallways were empty as Martin made his way through the building. He found himself walking quietly, trying to muffle any noise he made as though there were a risk of waking the other occupants. The place ought to have been too large for that to feel like a problem, but the constant feeling of being watched still pricked at the back of his neck and every sound he made seemed amplified a hundred times over. 

He breathed a sigh of relief when he finally found the stairway to the kitchen that Lord S- that  _ Jon _ had pointed out the day before. He'd always been comfortable in kitchens. They were the heart of the home, or something like it; it would take a lot for a kitchen to become unwelcoming, even in a place like this.

Martin made his way down the stairs. The kitchen at the bottom was large - enough to hold a hundred cooks preparing a feast. Long tables ran the length of the room, and a fireplace on one wall looked fit to roast a whole boar. The opposite wall was covered in huge windows, letting the early morning light stream in. Like the rest of the Estate, the place was built to house far more people than it actually did. 

A small table had been set in front of the fireplace, and a few chairs were scattered around it. Sitting in one, tending to a small fire that was dwarfed by the space around it and munching on a piece of toast, was Georgie. 

She turned as Martin made his way over to her, smiling and gesturing to the seat beside her. 

“Morning, Martin. Sleep well?”

“As well as can be expected in an unfamiliar place.” He had spent half the night lying awake, thoughts whirling around everything that had happened, but he didn't exactly want to talk about it so soon after waking up. He cast a glance around the kitchen, then pointed at Georgie's toast. “Where'd you get that?”

She waved the slice toward a door in the wall, then pointed at another on the other side of the room. “Pantry's over there with most of the food; that one's chilled if you're looking for eggs or milk or something. Cooking utensils are…” - she gestured vaguely - “around. Jon's the only one around here who really cares about organization, and he just  _ knows _ where things are without spending twenty minute looking, so it's all a bit of a mess.”

It wasn't as bad as she made it out to be. Martin grabbed the bread and eggs, located a frying pan hanging from a hook on the wall, and even found a box of tea leaves in the pantry. 

It was strange to make tea over an open fire. He was used to kettles that would self-heat, artificeries on the sides warming the water to the proper temperature within a few minutes of being activated. Still, making tea wasn't exactly a complicated process, and heating the water in the fireplace timed out well with the toast and eggs. 

It was as he was sitting down to eat that it struck him how odd it was that Georgie was still the only other person he had seen today. 

“Hey, Georgie? Where is everyone?”

She glanced toward the windows, judging the time from the sun's angle. “Hmm… Jon's probably in his study; Gerry'll still be asleep this early; and the Admiral might be in the Archives, but he's harder to keep track of.”

“No, I mean, the rest of them?”

“Sorry?” She frowned at him, confused. 

“The- the soldiers, and all?” There had been dozens of them around yesterday.

“Oh, they don't live at the Estate.” She said it as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

Martin blinked. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Georgie dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, raising her eyebrows and wiggling her fingers in the air for dramatic emphasis. “Most people find this place a bit...  _ spooky, _ you know? All the eyes?”

“Oh.” 

“There's a town about ten minutes walk to the west. That's where the stables are, where the whole support staff of this place is - farmers, artisans, merchants, and so on.” She shrugged. “That's where Gerry and I go when we want to be around other people, but aside from my soldiers people don't come by here much. Jon avoids the place for the most part. I'm honestly not sure if it's because he's worried they'll be scared of him or if he just genuinely prefers being alone.”

Martin thought about that for a second, weighing it against his own experience with the man. “He doesn't seem terribly worried about frightening people.”

Georgie hmmed noncommittally, grabbing another slice of bread to toast. “So what have you got planned for the day? You never really said what sort of research you were hoping to do here.”

Martin weighed his options. He didn't really want to tell Georgie about his failed attempt at diplomacy, and it probably wouldn't do any harm to pretend his current purpose was what he had been here for all along. 

“I'm actually researching the Witch Lords. You know there's an invasion brewing, yeah?”

“Oh.” Georgie sighed, her expression going grim. “Yeah. Jon and I have talked about it a lot, actually. Haven't been able to find a way to stop it, though.”

Martin's jaw dropped, and he was grateful Georgie wasn't looking at him. They'd actually thought about how to stop it  _ before  _ he showed up? Maybe they really  _ couldn't _ do anything, then. The thought certainly eased some of his guilt for failing to convince Jon to help. 

“Right. Well, that's what I'm trying to find. I figure if someone's beaten one in battle before, we can use the same tactics and do it again. Or, I don't know, if I figure out how their powers work we might be able to, to negate them or something.”

Georgie nodded slowly. “That makes sense. I mean, it's a long shot, but it makes sense. You going to be in the Archives all day, then? You'll probably want to try the history section first.”

“Yeah, that's where Jon said I should start.”

She froze for a second. “Jon said that, did he?”

“Um… yes?”

_ “Jon  _ did, eh? Jon?”

Martin realized what she was getting at. “Look, he said I could call him that.”

She grinned. “Oh, I know he  _ wanted  _ you to, I just wasn't sure if you  _ would.” _

“What's that supposed to mean?” She almost made it sound as though Jon had been…  _ bothered  _ by Martin using his title.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Good luck with the research, Martin.” She winked at him, then stood to leave the kitchen. Martin stayed by the fire, confused and feeling more out of his depth than ever. 

~~~~~

The history section was bigger than he had expected. It stretched all the way from the end of the biographies to the far wall, books crowded onto the shelves in neat rows. They seemed to be arranged chronologically by region, covering dates from the far distant past up to the most recent invasion of Raverra by the Lady of Worms. 

There was no clear place to start research. Martin eventually just grabbed a stack of likely looking volumes covering the broad strokes of Vaskandran history from the last few hundred years. If there was anything promising in them, he could probably find a more detailed account later. 

He made his way over to the outside wall, where there were several large tables placed near the windows, presumably to provide the best light for reading. Setting down the books, Martin prepared himself for a long day of study. 

He was immersed in account about a battle between the Lords of Earth and Sky when a loud thunk from across the table broke his concentration. Looking up, he saw Gerry sitting across from him, the same book he had been reading the day before held loosely in his hands. The thunk had come from him propping his feet on the table, the thick leather of his boots impacting solidly against the wood.

He nodded at Martin, raising the book. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.” Martin shifted a few of his own books to give him more room. Gerry watched as he did so, a slight furrow between his brows; then he leaned forward, taking his boots off the table and setting the book aside.

“Look, Martin. Georgie caught me up on why you're here, and from those books you've got I can see she wasn't kidding.” He stuck a finger at the stacks surrounding Martin, then laid his hands flat on the table. “I just want to say I'm sorry. Raverra shouldn't have to suffer just because some of the Witch Lords are making a power grab. If you need help with the research, don't hesitate to ask.”

“Oh.” Martin honestly hadn't expected that. Gerry came across as the sort to keep a distance between himself and the world, not the type to leap in and help an almost total stranger. “Thank you. For the offer of help, I mean. You don't exactly have to apologize about the invasion, though, I mean” - he laughed slightly - “it's not like it's your fault the Witch Lords are attacking.”

“Nah.” Gerry leaned back, smiling slightly. “But ever since my mum joined the fray I can't help but feel a bit guilty about it.”

Martin blinked. “What?”

“My mother. Lady Keay?”

Martin did a quick mental tally of the Witch Lords that were attacking. He knew Prentiss by name; the Lady of Masks had been the first in the fight; so that meant-

“Your mother is the  _ Lady of Ink?” _

“Yeah. You didn't know?”

“N-no, I-” It explained why Jon had introduced him as a Prince, at least. The Witch Lord titles tended to be hereditary, so Gerry ought to be next in line for when his mother died.  _ If  _ she ever… “How is that even  _ possible?  _ Isn't she some kind of- of zombie, or something?” 

Gerry actually laughed at that, though it was strained. “She wasn't always. She hasn't been a Witch Lord for - well, she got to the role sort of sideways, after I was born. Usurped the Tomb Lord, took his power. It was - well. She's always been ambitious.”

His voice was bitter, and Martin didn't want to press him on the subject. Still, though...

“Took his power? How-”

Gerry interrupted with a shake of his head. “You don't want to do what she did, Martin. Trust me.” His expression was neutral, but Martin could see the tension in his shoulders as he spoke. He let the matter drop.

“Why are you here, then? Shouldn't you be, I don't know, waiting for the throne or something?”

“I ran away.” Gerry relaxed; flashed a grin. “Terribly daring of me, I know, but I didn't want to sit around waiting for my mum to die so I could be the next Ink Lord. Gertrude took me in, and the rest is history.” He nudged one of Martin's books. “Probably a lot more interesting history than any of these, though.”

_ “Anything  _ would be.” Martin sighed. “I may have to take you up on that offer of help, I've been here all morning and I haven't found  _ anything _ useful.”

Gerry whistled. “Nothing in  _ any _ of these? That's an impressively bad start.”

“Yeah. Actually-” he rifled through the books, grabbing one from earlier and opening it at a bookmark. “Maybe you can help explain this, it's talking about how Witch Lords come into their powers - why they're so much stronger than anyone else who's mage-marked. It keeps saying that they're tied to the land, but I can't figure out how, or if there's a way to break it and leave them vulnerable.”

Gerry skimmed the page, then leaned back with a nod. “Well, I know one person who broke it, but I wouldn't want to repeat the process.”

“Your mum?”

“Yeah.”

Martin bit his lip. “Look, I know you don't want to talk about it, but…”

“I don't even know if you'd be able to repeat it. Like I said, she got in it sideways. I know there was a book involved, but…” he squinted at Martin. “You sure you want to hear about this?”

“Yes. I need to know everything I can, if there's even the slightest chance of saving Raverra.”

Gerry looked at him for a moment, appraising, before nodding briskly and reaching for the book again. “It all comes down to blood. See, here? The writing's a bit illegible, but it says a claim must be blooded before it's seized. ‘Claim,’ in this case, means land, so it's basically tying yourself to the land through blood. A lot of blood.”

He gave Martin a dark look, and Martin felt a chill up his spine. “...Whose?”

He grinned, glancing at the room around them to make sure no one was listening before leaning toward Martin and whispering, “That's the question, isn't it?”

“They- they kill people?” He felt the blood drain from his face as a horrifying thought hit him. “All of them? Even-”

“Oh yeah, they've all done it. Why do you think I didn't want to inherit my mother's claim?” Gerry leaned even closer over the table, eyes wide with excited horror. “I never had the guts for it. Jon's a braver man than I. I don't know who exactly he took, but I know there were a lot of them.”

Martin shook his head in disbelief. Jon had seemed so… well, if not  _ nice _ , then at least not  _ murderous. _ After their conversation last night, Martin had even been thinking they might be able to get on well, but if he had done  _ this-  _

“Grace of Mercy,” he breathed, “that's-”

“Completely untrue.” It was spoken from behind them, and Martin whipped around in shock to find Jon standing in front of a bookshelf, shaking his head in amusement. Martin let out a breath of relief, sinking back into his chair. Not living under the same roof as a murderer, then. 

“Spoilsport!” Gerry protested. “I really had him going there!”

“And you're the one who always complains we never get visitors.” He walked over to where they were sitting, depositing the book he carried on the table. He was much more relaxed than he had been the night before, both the stiff tension and the nervous energy gone. Martin had to admit he was relieved. There had been something…  _ intense _ about Jon that, while not necessarily bad, had set him on edge. He seemed much more approachable now, with that intensity faded. “There's not much I can do about that if you keep scaring them away.”

“Martin wasn't scared, were you, Martin?” Gerry gave him an impish grin, and he laughed nervously. “He’s like Georgie, I swear. Tell him he's living with an eldritch monstrosity that eats people alive, he asks if he should make tea to go on the side.”

A flicker of a smile crossed Jon's face. “Well, I'm glad to hear that. Don't let Gerry spook you too much, Martin. He gets like this with everyone.”

“And here I thought I was special.” Martin wanted to take the joke back as soon as he said it - it was horrible, it really was - but Gerry burst out laughing and even Jon chuckled. 

“Indeed. Anyway, Georgie mentioned you were interested in studying how the Witch Lords’ magic functions, in addition to our history, so I thought you might want to look at this.” He indicated the book on the table. “It's a comprehensive history of this domain, stretching all the way back to the reign of the first Lord of Eyes, and includes a fairly detailed description of the claiming process and how it affects one's magic. Feel free to read it at your leisure, and I can answer any questions you have about it.” 

He slid the book toward Martin, who opened the cover gingerly. The pages were covered in small, cramped handwriting, with lists of dates and maps interspersed throughout. It looked terribly old and important. 

“Are you - are you sure it's okay for me to read this? It looks very… official.”

“I'm sure my predecessor would be rolling in her grave, if she heard I'd given it to you. Unfortunately for her, it's my book now and I don't give a damn if other people know what's in it.” Jon blinked, seemingly surprised by his own language, and flushed slightly. Gerry snorted, and Jon pointedly ignored him, composing himself. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I do have other business to take care of today. Gerry, please don't traumatize my guest too badly while I'm gone.” He left, waving vaguely back at them over his shoulder as he did so. 

Gerry grinned at Martin. “You two on a first name basis now, then?”

“What? Oh. Yeah.” Martin frowned at him, mind already on the new book in front of him. “Is that so weird? Georgie pointed it out too.”

Gerry ignored the question. “He really likes you, you know.”

Martin huffed and ducked his head to start flipping through the book. “I'm not listening to you anymore, you've lost all credibility for me.”

Gerry rolled his eyes, then picked up his own book, swinging his feet up onto the table again and leaning his chair back on two legs. “Suit yourself.”


	10. Tea

The next few days passed in a haze of dust and paper. Martin divided his time between the histories he had found and the book Jon had given him, occasionally diving back into the forest of shelves to find new tomes that could clarify the details of an event. Georgie and Gerry helped where they could, drawing from their own knowledge of history and magic, and keeping him company in the kitchen if they happened to be eating at the same time. 

He didn't find anything particularly useful. Most deaths reported among the Witch Lords seemed to come from being overpowered by their fellows, and others went largely unremarked. Many of the Witch Lords were only referred to by title, anyway, and so it was impossible to say when the power changed hands. Did it matter if the Lady of Knives who first formed a treaty with the Lord of Bone was the same one who, fifty years later, invaded his lands in a bid to seize more power? As far as the Vaskandran history books were concerned, apparently not.

He didn't see much of Jon. They passed occasionally in the corridors, and once Martin saw him replacing a book on a shelf farther into the Archives when he was looking for a book of his own in the history section, but for the most part the Witch Lord seemed to be keeping his distance. It was to be expected, really - Martin might have been a guest in name, but he was here for the Archives, not to socialize. If Jon wanted to keep his distance, well, that was what Martin had been hoping for, right? It left him free to focus on his research without worrying about accidentally ruining the fragile peace they had formed. By the end of the second day, he had even stopped looking over his shoulder to see if that watchful sensation came because Jon was actually in the room.

All of this to say that when he entered the Archives to find Jon sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at the wall with wide but vacant eyes, it came as a bit of a shock.

“Jon?” 

The Witch Lord didn't reply. Martin took a hesitant step closer, waving a hand to try to get the man's attention.

“Hello?”

No response. As far as Martin could tell, Jon hadn't even heard him. 

He waited for a few more moments to see if there was any change, but Jon didn't move. He didn't even blink. Martin was only half sure he was even  _ breathing.  _

He briefly considered grabbing the man's shoulder to try to shake him out of whatever paralysis he had fallen into, but thought better of it. This was probably just some new form of magic - for all Martin knew, waking him could be dangerous. He wasn't sure if it was Jon's safety he was worried for, or his own. 

Regardless, he fetched his books from the table he had been studying at for the past few days and brought them over to one that allowed him a clear view of the Witch Lord. If something dangerous started, he was close enough to the doors to run; and if this turned out to be innocuous it wouldn't do him any harm to spend the day in a new location. 

Almost an hour passed with no changes. Martin spent the time working his way through the book about the Eye Lords, trying to parse the cramped text and convoluted sentences into something resembling sense. When he reached the end of the section he had been reading, he leaned back, stretching, then raised an eyebrow. Jon was still on the floor, entirely still. Martin had almost forgotten he was there.

He was just contemplating whether it would be safe to leave him there while he went to make lunch when he heard it. 

_ Be aware that there is a line of severe thunderstorms moving in across the western border. It will most likely be hitting populated areas by late afternoon. Plan accordingly, and have a nice day. _

Martin froze. The words had echoed around his head in Jon's cool, composed voice, but... Jon hadn't spoken. He hadn't moved. His voice had just  _ been _ in Martin's head all of a sudden, and-

He scrambled to his feet in a panic, sending his chair clattering backward and knocking the books to the floor in his haste. "What was  _ that?" _

Jon jolted from his place on the floor, looking around in confusion until he spotted Martin behind him. His expression faded from shock to embarrassment, then to a composed neutrality, as he stood and brushed himself off.

“Martin. I didn't realize you were there. What was what?”

“What was  _ that?”  _ Martin's voice was high-pitched, caught somewhere between anger and hysteria.  _ “You! _ In my  _ head!” _

Jon's brow furrowed for a moment; then he blinked. “Oh, you mean the weather warning?”

“The  _ wea-?” _

“I try to keep an eye on the storms around here, give people an advance notice if anything dangerous is moving in.” Jon shrugged, seemingly nonplussed by Martin's consternation. “A strong thunderstorm can wreak havoc on farmland, you know."

"But- but- it was just in my head and-" 

Jon's face lit up in understanding. "Oh, that was the first time-" he nodded. "I am terribly sorry, Martin, I didn't intend to startle you. I didn't think to warn you that I might be… well, doing  _ that. _ Most everyone around here is used to it by now, so…” He shrugged again. “Sending out thoughts like that, passing information on to people, it's just... one of the things I can do.”

He seemed genuinely apologetic, and Martin started to calm down. He took a deep breath, and it was in a much more controlled voice that he asked, “So I'm not the only one that heard that?”

“No.” Jon shook his head. “Everyone in my domain will have heard it.”

Martin tried to process that. The ability to stick thoughts in other people's heads was one of the horror stories he'd heard about the Eye Lord - and Jon was using it to warn people about the  _ weather? _

“So why were you sat on the floor for so long?”

Jon flushed slightly at that, and Martin had to bite back an amused smile. It was… surprisingly charming, when he did that. “Oh, uh… I was, was watching. The weather, I mean. I always check it in the morning, but I couldn't tell the direction the storm was going in earlier, so I had to wait until it got closer, and… watch it. For a while.”

“And you were on the floor because…?”

“I'm not used to having other people around. Georgie and Gerry both ignore me, at this point, so I just… stop where I am.”

Martin looked pointedly at the table he had been sitting at. “Jon, there's chairs literally ten feet from you.”

“Yeah.” Jon nodded, opened his mouth to say something else, then closed it again. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. 

Martin waited for him to continue. When he realized that was all Jon had to say for himself, he shook his head. “Okay then.” He grabbed his books from the floor, straightened the chair. “I was about to grab something to eat. You wanna join?”

“Sorry?”

Martin paused, realizing what he'd said. It had been an automatic response, the sort of offer he would make to his friends back in Raverra all the time - or to Georgie and Gerry, more recently. He'd been so caught up in the conversation he hadn't even realized he might be being a little too familiar with Jon - they hadn't really talked since the first day Martin had been here, after all.

Still, Jon looked more confused than annoyed, so Martin repeated the offer. “I'm going to go eat lunch. Do you want to come with me? I can make us both tea, or something.”

Jon's nose crinkled in disgust. “I'm not a fan of tea.”

“Seriously?” He raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

“It's too bitter.”

“Jon, I've  _ had  _ the tea you have here. It's not bitter at  _ all. _ What, do you keep burning it, or something?”

Jon frowned. “You can't burn  _ tea, _ Martin, it's liquid.”

“You can't-” That settled it. Martin didn't care if he was being too familiar. “Come with me. I'm making you tea, and I'm making it the  _ right  _ way, and you're going to like it.”

“Excuse me?” Jon's smile was amused. 

“Just come on.” Martin started walking toward the door. He could feel Jon staring after him for a moment; then another set of footsteps joined his own, and he led the way to the kitchens.

~~~~~

Martin's confidence had waned slightly by the time they reached the kitchens, as the indignancy of encountering poor taste in tea was submerged under the anxiety of telling a supposedly all-knowing Lord he was doing something wrong. Still, Jon hadn't expressed any annoyance at Martin's insistence, so he did his best to shut out the internal voices telling him he was being an idiot and calmly began to fill the kettle with water.

Jon watched him work, standing awkwardly next to the counter as Martin set out two mugs and fetched the tea leaves. 

"Is, ah… is there anything I can help with?"

Martin set the kettle over the fire. "Nope. We just have to wait for the water to boil. This first step's pretty hard to mess up, but I'll walk you through the rest of it when we get there."

"Right." Jon glanced around the rest of the room. Then: "I could make sandwiches?"

"Sorry?"

"You said you were coming down here for lunch. Before you got distracted by my horrifying lack of tea knowledge." This was said with a half-smile; Martin returned it with an embarrassed one of his own. "I could make us sandwiches to go along with the tea, while the water's heating."

"Oh." Martin hadn't expected that. Honestly, he hadn't expected Jon to join him for lunch at  _ all,  _ let alone offer to help  _ make  _ it. "I, uh… if you want to? You don't have to, I mean…"

"It's no trouble at all, Martin. Least I can do, if you're making me tea."

"Alright, then." Jon smiled again, and headed to the pantry to grab ingredients. "Thank you."

Now Martin was the one standing by to watch Jon work. It was… fascinating, to tell the truth. The kitchen's organization wasn't as bad as Georgie had claimed; still, Martin had realized that finding anything specific involved at least a little rattling around in drawers trying to find what you were looking for. Jon… didn't. He just reached into drawers and pulled out what he needed immediately, without any hesitation. Indeed, Martin saw him reach into a drawer  _ without even looking into it, _ and pull out the exact bread knife he needed to slice the loaf he had grabbed. 

Even though Martin knew it was because of his spooky Eye Lord powers, he found himself impressed.

Jon had the sandwiches finished before the water boiled, and he set down the plates on the table next to the mugs just as Martin was pulling the kettle from the fire.

"So," he said, watching Martin place the kettle on a hot pad on the table. "What am I doing wrong?"

"Well, I don't know exactly, not without seeing you make it." Martin measured leaves into the tea infusers he had found, dropping them in the mugs. "But I'm guessing your issue is you don't give the water time to cool before pouring it."

"I… would imagine so, given that I _don't_ do that. You let the water _cool?"_

"Yeah, if the water's too hot the leaves release some pretty bitter chemicals into it - it happens if you steep it too long as well."

"So why let it boil in the first place? Seems like a waste of time."

"Maybe." Martin checked the kettle - the water was still steaming, but had cooled enough, by his estimate. He poured it into the mugs, sending up a cloud of fragrant steam. "But it helps drive out impurities from the water. Not as important if you've got a good filtering system, but kind of vital if you don't."

"I see." Jon drew one of the mugs toward himself, leaning forward to inhale the steam. "And you call it burned because…?"

"Because it's the heat that ruins it. Also, I think it can sometimes taste charred? But I've never had that happen."

"I'm sure you're far too much of an expert to allow it." There was an amused note to Jon's voice - at least, Martin hoped it was amused. It might have been mocking. Either way, he figured it was better not to respond to the comment.

"Do you take milk and sugar? Those can help with the taste as well."

"Yes, please." Jon pushed the mug back in Martin's direction. "Use your own discretion on the amount; I don't have a preference, really."

Martin nodded slightly, hesitating for just a moment before adding a generous amount of both milk and sugar to Jon's tea. The man didn't come across as the sort that liked sweet things, but for someone who'd never been a fan of tea… better safe than sorry. Besides, he had promised a drink that wouldn't be bitter, and even without burning the leaves it was always a risk with tea. His own mug he was more careful with, adding only a small amount of both.

He watched a bit nervously as Jon raised the mug to his mouth and took a sip. Jon's eyes closed as he contemplated the taste - then he blinked them open, and smiled at Martin.

"That's actually quite good."

"Hah!" The noise burst from him before he could stop it, carried on a wave of victorious excitement. He'd never yet met the person he couldn't convert to a tea drinker.

Jon laughed at the outburst, a look of genuine joy brightening his face, and pushed one of the sandwiches toward Martin. "You win. I hope a turkey sandwich is a satisfying reward for it."

"Sounds spectacular to me."

They ate in silence for a bit. Martin kept catching himself glancing at Jon, and had to remind himself not to stare. It was just so…  _ odd,  _ to see him so relaxed. The terrifying Eye Lord, tyrant of the North, the monster whispered about in stories that haunted the nightmares of young children… eating a sandwich and drinking tea. Jon watched the fire, the light flickering in the silver of his eyes. His expression was peaceful, a slight smile curling around his lips as he took a sip of the tea. Martin shook himself, and looked away.

"How's the research going, by the way?"

He looked up again. Jon was looking at him expectantly. "Hm? Sorry?"

"The research. Find anything useful yet?"

"Oh, uh, I'm not really sure? There doesn't seem to be much-" He paused, trying to work out in his own mind what had been bothering him about the texts. It wasn't that they lacked detail, just… "I'm having a hard time keeping track of who all the various historical figures are, you know? The books don't really specify when anyone's died, let alone  _ how; _ it would be a lot easier if they'd just use people's names instead of their titles."

Jon huffed slightly, amused. "Well, there's not much point to it when they stay the same for so long. The two practically become synonyms."

Martin blinked. "What?"

"There's no call to specify  _ who  _ the various Lords are when they never change. It's easier to just use titles, because the various powers we wield are a major component in our interactions and history. More important than who's wielding them, in most cases."

He was missing something here, he  _ had _ to be. What he was hearing made it sound like... "Jon, I have  _ no _ idea what you're talking about."

"Oh." Jon frowned slightly. It was an expression Martin was rapidly becoming familiar with, the one that seemed to adorn his face whenever he paused for thought. "I thought this was common knowledge. Witch Lords are immortal."

Martin's jaw dropped. "You're what?"

"Functionally immortal. I mean, we can still be killed. Sometimes. And we still age. Just… very slowly, and we can't die from it. Our power, it… well, it feeds us, almost. The energy, the  _ life _ we draw from the world around us, it sustains us, keeps us going long after we should be gone. Gertrude was hundreds of years old by the end.”

Martin stared at Jon, trying to process all that he was saying. It certainly explained the books; it probably  _ was  _ the same Lady of Knives who betrayed the Bone Lord, all those decades later. Research considerations were pushed to the side, however, as a much more pressing thought invaded Martin's mind.

There was a slight dusting of grey around Jon's temples, and faint lines around his eyes. He carried himself with energy, but there was a certain dignity behind it when he was being formal that Martin had previously attributed to the high status of his position and now was realizing might have instead come with… age.

“Jon, are you…?”

Jon waved a hand, dismissing the unfinished query. “No older than you, I assure you.”

Martin breathed out, unexpectedly relieved at the confirmation. Not that it would  _ matter _ if Jon were hundreds of years old, not  _ really,  _ but still… it was nice to know.

"So you're going to live forever, then? Unless someone kills you?"

Jon shook his head. "No. I can make the choice to not draw on that power, and I plan to. I'm still aging normally, and when it comes time… I'm not going to fight it."

"Oh." Martin could understand the decision, honestly. No matter what the tales of eternal life and happiness said, he had never understood the lure of outliving everyone and everything he'd ever known. "How does that work, then? I mean, 'drawing the life from the world around you'? How is that even possible?"

"It's all to do with taking a claim, making the land yours. Once you're tied to it, it just… happens. Every life within that domain becomes tied to yours, and if your own life runs out… It's pretty automatic, unless you consciously stop it. I've heard tales of whole miles of forests withering where they stand if a Witch Lord is under attack."

"They literally suck the life out of the trees to heal themselves?"

"Trees, plants, animals… people, too, if they're not careful, or if they… well. There's a reason some of us prefer not to associate with the Lady of Masks and her ilk."

Martin grimaced, feeling slightly queasy at the thought. It wasn't exactly surprising, given what he knew of the Mask Lady - she did far worse than just kill people, after all - but still.

Jon kept talking. "Gertrude was actually an interesting case, from that perspective. Not a single other life harmed when she died. I'm still not sure if it was a conscious choice or…" he trailed off, looking thoughtful.

"I take it she didn't just decide to age normally, then."

"No." Jon smiled in cold amusement. "No, it was not a peaceful death."

He took another bite of his sandwich, looking back toward the fire. Martin watched him, not touching his own food. There was a lot to think about, not least the fact that Jon seemed rather dismissive when talking about the death of his predecessor and he still didn't know for sure how-

“You seem slightly nervous, Martin.”

He flushed. “Oh, no, I… well…" Jon glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. "It’s just what Gerry said the other day? I know he was just having me on, but you keep talking about how you're tied to the land and, well… the book you gave me  _ does _ keep talking about having to blood a claim, and it doesn't say where the blood, uh...”

“You’re worried I might be a murderer.” 

“No! I mean, I don’t think- that is-” Jon grinned as he stuttered to a halt.

“It’s quite alright, Martin. I understand your concern. I am not a murderer, as it happens, and though there is a certain amount of blood involved in the claiming process, it was all my own." He tilted his head to the side, inquiringly. "I can take you to one of the claiming sites tomorrow, if you wish, and explain the ritual in greater detail?”

Martin blinked. That was… "Are you sure that's not the sort of thing you shouldn't be showing to outsiders?"

"I'm sure it'll be fine. Besides, if you're looking for ways to get rid of Witch Lords you should at least have a thorough understanding of how we come to be in the first place."

"A- alright, then." Martin nodded. He wasn't exactly sure what he was getting himself into, but Jon really didn't seem like the sort to be setting him up for an elaborate trap, and, well… he was curious.

Jon smiled. "Good. I hope you packed good walking shoes, then. It's a bit of a hike."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin "I don't care if you suck people's secrets from their heads, the real monstrosity is not liking tea" Blackwood


	11. The Mausoleum

Jon met him in the kitchen as he was sitting down for breakfast the next morning. The Witch Lord was dressed for the outdoors: sturdy boots and a dark green cloak wrapped around his shoulders. The edges of the cloak bore the same jagged embroidery as the shirt he had been wearing the first night they met, back at the Raverran court. Given the decor of the rest of the Estate, the familiar pattern of eyes seemed almost tame by comparison.

He nodded at Martin as he began to pack a bag with food. "Morning. Still up for visiting the claiming site?"

"Yeah." Martin watched as Jon snagged a few apples from a bowl to add to the bag. "Uh, how far away is it?"

"Few hours." A couple of sandwiches were quickly assembled and disappeared into the bag. "Far enough we'll be gone for lunch. Close enough we'll be back for dinner." He closed the bag, set it on the table. "We're in no hurry to leave, though, so don't rush your breakfast."

"Right." Jon came over to sit next to him as he ate, and he cast the man a sidelong glance before nudging the kettle with his elbow. "I could make you tea before we go, if you like?"

Jon smiled, and it was probably just a trick of the morning light, but Martin could have sworn a faint flush rose in his cheeks. "That sounds nice. Thank you, Martin."

They sat in a surprisingly companionable silence as Martin finished breakfast and Jon quietly drank his tea. Georgie arrived in the kitchen just as they were leaving, and gave them a cheerful wave as they headed for the stairs. 

"Have fun in the woods! Jon, do try not to scare Martin  _ too  _ much."

Martin frowned at Jon's back as he followed him up the stairs. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"The first time I took Georgie - and Gerry, for that matter - to the site, I wasn't fully in control of my powers yet. They are…  _ strong,  _ in that place, and I lost myself a bit. It wasn't dangerous," he added quickly. "Not for them, at least. Just… well, I hesitate to use the word, but Georgie says it was 'spooky'." He glanced over his shoulder, gave Martin a reassuring smile. "That was years ago, though. You've got nothing to worry about today."

Martin raised an eyebrow, not comforted in the least. Still, he'd already committed to going, so he followed Jon out of the Estate and into the woods.

They followed a different road than the one Martin had taken on his way there, heading deeper into the Witch Lord's territory. The road was wide and well maintained, and they passed through the village Georgie had mentioned shortly after leaving the Estate. After another half hour of walking along, engaged in conversation about the local plants and wildlife they passed, Jon took a sharp right into the woods. Martin blinked at the spot he had disappeared for a second before he stepped back out, gesturing for Martin to follow him.

"Come on. There's a path through here."

There was, indeed, a path, though Martin thought that was a fairly generous description. What there  _ was _ was a faintly defined trail over which the underbrush didn't seem to grow, almost indistinguishable from the surrounding forest unless you were standing on it. The trees seemed to encroach on either side, looming over them as they walked. Martin was reminded of Tim's ominous hints about the Vaskandran forests, how he said the land itself was alive. There  _ was  _ a presence here, different than the tingling sense of being watched that Martin was growing accustomed to. It was powerful, and it was  _ old. _

Martin grew quiet as they walked, glancing nervously into the trees on either side. They didn't move as trees ought to, swaying in the wind - they moved as though they were aware of the two small humans passing through their midst, and deciding whether or not they were worth the effort to crush. 

Or perhaps that was just Martin letting Tim's horror stories get to his head. The forest had seemed safe enough from the road, after all, and if he were to be honest with himself Martin would have to admit that all forests could feel like this and he wouldn't know it. He'd never really been one for hiking. 

He forced his gaze from the trees, looking at Jon instead. The Witch Lord seemed calm enough as he walked, head tilted up to watch for birds in the trees, cloak trailing behind him on the path. It was a sight fit for a painting, Martin found himself thinking, something mystical and mysterious.  _ In the Forests of Eternity, _ perhaps, or  _ The Faylord's Dream.  _ Or maybe a poem.

He was so lost in his own head, trying to come up with the perfect way to describe the slim lines of Jon's shoulders and the way the fabric of the cloak draped over them, that it took him quite a while to notice the slight gestures Jon kept making with his hands, as though he were brushing flies off the path in front of him as he walked. Once he did notice it became hard to ignore, but it took another ten minutes of watching before he realized what was happening. The forest ahead of them was covered in as much underbrush as the rest of it. The path behind them was clear. Directly ahead of Jon, vines and nettles were quietly shifting out of the way, curling back on themselves to create a clear path through the woods.

With no fuss, no muss, and no apparent sign of effort, the Witch Lord was making the plants obey his will.

Martin stopped in his tracks.

Jon walked on for a few paces without noticing something had changed, then stopped and looked around for a moment before glancing back at Martin. His eyebrows rose in concerned curiosity.

"Something wrong?"

"Y- you-" A coherent sentence failed to appear, so Martin settled for gesturing wildly at the forest ahead of and behind them, then at Jon. "Plants!"

"What? Oh." Jon's brow furrowed, and his own gesture was more vague, taking in the path and the forest around it. "You mean the, uh." He stopped, dropped his hands. "Sorry."

He looked genuinely worried that he'd scared Martin. And, honestly, Martin probably  _ should  _ have been scared. Animating plants like that was surely no small feat, and Jon hadn't even seemed to exert himself to do it. And yet… 

Well, if  _ Jon _ was the one making the forest feel alive, then Martin wasn't in danger of being attacked by vengeful trees. And while it lent credibility to Tim's tales of the land itself being malevolent in the Lady of Masks' domain, it made it far more likely that it was  _ her  _ wrath he'd been facing, not some strange form of self-defense intrinsic to the Vaskandran forests. 

Martin took a deep breath, and waved a hand to dismiss Jon's concerns. "You don't need to apologize. I was just surprised, is all. I didn't know you could do that."

"Oh. Thank you, I, uh. Yeah." He raised a hand to a vine growing on a nearby tree, coaxing it to untwine from its place and curl towards him. "All Witch Lords can. It's part of claiming the land."

Martin watched the vine start gently twisting its way up Jon's arm, the dark green leaves almost blending in with his cloak. He smiled. "That's actually really cool." 

Jon definitely flushed this time, a small, pleased smile twitching around his lips. "Thank you." He shook the vine off, and it slithered back to its tree. "Shall we continue?"

He was less subtle about clearing the path now he knew Martin was watching him, and he pushed the undergrowth back far enough that they could walk side-by-side. Martin watched the forest clear ahead of them, and a thought occurred. 

"Jon? You do actually  _ know  _ where we're going, right?"

Jon gave him an odd look. "Of course I do."

"It's just that, if there's no  _ actual _ path…"

"There is, though." Jon crouched down, gesturing Martin to follow him, and pointed to the underbrush to the side of the path. "See through there? All those stems? There's a plant growing every few centimetres in that mess, all anchored to the ground by roots as strong as steel. Compare that to here-" and he swung back to the path, grabbing a handful of vines to lift them off the ground. Underneath was clear of all but grass. "The plants grow over the path, but they don't grow  _ on _ it. Easy enough to shift out of the way, but hard for anyone who can't clear them to pick up the trail accidentally." He dropped the vines, stood, and swung his hand in an arc across the forest ahead of them. The vines pulled back, leaving a distinct and clear path stretching far ahead. The underbrush on the sides was unaffected. 

"Bit paranoid, if you ask me. Hiding your spooky ritual site away in the woods like that."

"Oh, definitely." Jon dropped his arm, and they started walking again. "Honestly I don't care if anyone finds it. But the system was already there, even before Gertrude became Eye Lord, so I'm not going to mess with it. Besides," he gave Martin a crooked grin. "You have to admit it's kind of cool."

Martin couldn't deny that. He smiled back.

They spent the rest of the walk chatting idly. Jon had a lot to say on the subject of books, and Martin was delighted to find they shared some favorites. Less so to find Jon wasn't terribly big on poetry, but he seemed open enough to Martin's suggestions and even promised to read a few of them. 

Jon became quieter as they approached the site. They were deep in the forest at that point, and the underbrush covering the path had trailed off, leaving a wide and distinct roadway. The trees were thick on either side, blocking the view around twists in the path. 

"It's just up here."

Martin jumped, glancing at Jon. It was the first he'd spoken in a while. He nodded at the next bend in the path.

"Around that turn."

"Alright, then." Martin spoke softly. Something about this place, about Jon's quiet, was affecting him. It felt… irreverent to speak any louder. 

Turning the corner gave him his first view of their destination. He hadn't really known what to expect from the place. It wasn't this.

It was a small graveyard. A few dozen headstones were scattered around, some in clumps, others alone. The passage of years had worn most of them thin, and if they had ever had inscriptions, they were long since eroded into obscurity. Here and there, among the graves, Martin spotted lumps of stone that might have once been headstones, until the slow processes of wind and weather had turned them back to plain granite. 

There was one, though. Off to the left, in clean, new stone. It had no epitaph, just two dates. And a name. 

Gertrude Robinson.

"It's where they're all buried." Jon said quietly, standing at Martin's shoulder. "All the Eye Lords. And those friends and family members who wished to be buried nearby."

Gertrude's headstone was alone. Martin wondered what that said about her.

He turned his attention to the building in the center of the clearing. It was a small mausoleum, plain but dignified, made of a stone that had withstood the weather far better than the surrounding graves. It had no door, just a rusted iron gate that sagged on its hinges as Jon tugged it open. 

He sighed. "Have to replace that soon. Coming, Martin?" 

Martin swallowed nervously, but followed Jon into the building. As he was passing through the door he glanced up and saw, faded and nearly invisible, the name carved into the stone above the door: Jonah Magnus.

Inside was… empty. Just a single slab of marble in the center of a bare room, and Jon leaning against it looking at something hidden behind.

"What is this place?"

Jon turned. "An entrance. It's up to you whether we go any further."

Martin had to walk around the marble to see what he had been looking at. It was a staircase, old but unworn, descending deep into the ground. Martin suppressed a shiver. 

"What's down there?"

"It leads to an underground cavern, and a stream. These stairs were built into a cave system that was already here - the first Eye Lord, Jonah Magnus, found it while looking for places to anchor his claim. The stairs, and this mausoleum, were built by a friend of his to mark the spot. I doubt he ever intended to be buried here. He, like most Witch Lords, had no intention of ever dying."

"Is he…?" Martin didn't finish the sentence, just raised his eyebrows meaningfully and pointed down the stairs. 

Jon smiled slightly, but it looked strained. "No. He's buried outside, same as the rest of them."

"You seem to know a lot about him."

"I'm sorry." Jon took a deep breath, placed a hand to his temple. "This place is… strong. It gets… hard, to hold it all back."

Martin frowned in concern. "Are you sure  _ you'll  _ be alright, going down?"

"I'll be fine, Martin. So," he stood abruptly, grabbing the bag he'd leaned against the wall. "You want to go down?"

"If it's alright to. I'm… curious."

"It's perfectly alright, Martin. That's why I brought you here, after all." He dug around in the bag for a lantern, handed it to Martin as he searched for matches. "I won't need that to see down there, so you should hold onto it."

Martin nodded, taking the match Jon handed him and lighting the lantern. And then they started down.

The stairs went on for a long time. The air was dusty and dry, and in the light of the lantern Martin could see the carvings done into the walls. 

Eyes. It was all eyes. He shouldn't have expected anything else. He was getting used to the pervasive watchfulness he had felt ever since crossing the Vaskandran border, but it was stronger here, more distilled. Cold, clinical, and above all active, not just a passive observation.

The stairs ended in a short corridor with walls of brick, which in turn opened into a wide, natural cavern. A stream ran through the middle of it, the current swift and strong. By the edge of the river there was-

Well. Martin hesitated to call it an alter, but for all intents and purposes it might as well have been. It was a tall stone platform, slightly indented in the center. Channels cut into the top directed any water that hit it over the back and into the stream, and a steady drip of condensation from the roof of the cavern ensured those channels were full. There was a stone knife resting on the edge of the platform. 

"Jon? What- what is all this?" Martin's voice echoed in the cavern, joining the rushing of the water.

"This cavern has been here for over two thousand years. It was sealed off from the outside world until exactly nineteen years, three months, and ten days before Jonah Magnus found it, at which point an earthquake - caused by volcanic activity to the north - created a sinkhole in the forest above, exposing it to discovery. It is six meters long, four point five meters wide, and three point oh-four meters tall. The stream flows north-south, beginning just inside the border to this domain and eventually joining up with the river system that leads down to your own city, Raverra. It surfaces exactly six point three miles downstream and remains aboveground from then on. The knife was carved five hundred and seventy-seven years ago and replaced the tradition of bringing your own blade down to the cavern to complete the blooding process. It is carved from the same granite as the mausoleum upstairs. It weighs three-quarters of a pound and is sharp enough to cut through human skin with the barest amount of pressure-"

Martin's eyes widened as Jon continued, listing various facts and figures about their location.

"Jon?"

Jon turned to face him, but didn't stop talking. His eyes were distant, as though he were reading off some page that only he could see, and the mage mark around his irises seemed to glow in the lantern light.

_ "Jon!" _

He stopped, mid-word, and blinked. Blinked again. "S-sorry, it's-"

"We should get out of here."

"Y-yes. That's probably a good idea."

Martin nodded, eyes wide, and gestured for him to lead the way. He kept his eyes on the Witch Lord all the way through the corridor and back up the steps, watching for any signs of abnormal behavior, but other than a slight, tired slump to his shoulders he seemed fine. 

When they reached the surface Jon sagged against the marble slab, and Martin had to restrain himself from reaching over to support him. He figured the Witch Lord probably wouldn't appreciate the suggestion that he couldn't take care of himself. 

After a moment, Jon straightened, taking a deep breath. "Sorry," he said again. "I thought I was more prepared this time."

"Is that what happened when you brought Georgie and Gerry here?"

"Yeah." He sighed. "Though they weren't nearly as successful at waking me. It took… a long time."

Martin waited, but Jon didn't seem to be any more forthcoming on the matter.

"Jon… what happened?"

Jon shuddered. "I was… overwhelmed." He stood abruptly, heading for the door. "Come on. I'd prefer to talk outside."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Descriptions of the mausoleum owed to episode 23, Schwartzwald.


	12. Claiming

Martin followed him to a clearing behind the mausoleum. The grass was unnaturally short and well-maintained for a place that seemed so abandoned - he figured it was yet another case of magical maintenance, like the pathway. 

Jon unhooked his cloak from around his shoulders and spread it on the grass, gesturing Martin to take a seat. Martin hesitated for a second - the fabric was  _ very  _ nice, too nice to be used as a blanket - but Jon sat down and began unpacking lunch from his bag, so he followed suit.

They ate in silence for a bit, staring off into the trees around them and watching birds flying overhead. It was quite peaceful, almost idyllic, and Martin found it hard to reconcile the beauty of this spot with the cold and… well, yes,  _ spooky _ caverns beneath. 

After a few minutes, Jon set his sandwich down. "I owe you an explanation."

"That would be nice, yes."

He smiled. "Very well. Like I said before we went down, this place is strong. It's not the only claiming site in my domain, but it is the central one, the most powerful. Coming here sort of… focuses my power. You know I can see things,  _ learn _ things, if I focus my attention on something specific?"

Martin nodded. "Like how you always know what drawer the knives are in in the kitchen without looking."

"Right. That's the most basic, the most  _ instinctual, _ of the things I can do. Watching things at a distance, or making people tell the truth, those take conscious effort. But just  _ knowing  _ random facts about the world around me… it's effortless."

"So if this place is the center of your power…"

"It all gets amplified. The slow drip of random information becomes an ocean of knowledge, surrounding me on all sides. Like having a thousand people screaming at you at once, and you can hear what each and every one of them are saying. And then when someone asks me a question…"

"...That information comes to the forefront, and you answer with  _ all  _ of it, instead of just the relevant bits?"

"Exactly. Everything that's  _ me _ sort of fades away, and what's left is the world's biggest book of useless facts." He gave Martin a sheepish look. "I black out a little bit. I don't even remember what I was telling you about, down there."

"The geological history of the cave system, actually."

"Huh." Jon tilted his head to the side. "Not so bad, considering. Gerry had the unfortunate luck to ask me who built the place, and he and Georgie were treated to an in-depth lecture about the entire life and death of Albrecht von Closen before they could finally get me to shut up."

Martin laughed, and Jon smiled again. 

"I am sorry, though. I thought I was stronger, this time. Thought I could hold it all back."

Martin waved a hand. "It's fine. Spooky, but fine. I'm just glad  _ you're  _ okay."

"Oh." Something flickered across Jon's expression, too quick for Martin to name, and his eyes went soft. "Thank you, Martin."

Martin's heart did something strange in his chest, and he felt himself flush. He looked away quickly, clearing his throat. "So, uh, you said- you said you'd tell me about the blooding process?"

"Right." Jon leaned back - and when had he leaned in toward Martin in the first place? - and took another bite of his sandwich before answering. "I'm sure you saw the knife."

"Yeah, you told me all about what kind of stone it was made from and when it was carved." He risked a teasing glance over at the Witch Lord, and Jon chuckled.

"I see. Well, the fact that this site is on a river is no coincidence. All the claiming sites are, and the rivers that they connect to create a sort of…  _ grid, _ let's say, though it's not as precise as that - they create a sort of grid covering this whole domain." He paused. "There's a fair bit of ceremony involved in taking a claim, but the short version is that the prospective Witch Lord gives a bit of blood to the water at each site, and the rivers carry it around the land. The plants are watered with it, the animals drink it, the very ground itself soaks it in, and you become tied to the land in a way far deeper than mere political rulership - it goes down to the blood and the bones and the very life of you, linking you intrinsically to every living thing that walks your soil."

He fell silent, staring into the forest. Martin stared at him in turn, eyes wide. There was… a lot there, in Jon's explanation, that he needed to address - but one point seemed most prominent.

"You  _ bleed _ into the  _ water?" _

"Hm? Oh. Yes." Jon scratched the back of his head, embarrassed. "Just a few drops, really, but it's enough."

"That's  _ highly _ unsanitary."

"It's not like the water doesn't get filtered before anyone drinks it, Martin. The blood is just a launching point for the magic - a symbol for a much larger process."

"So that's how you control the trees and the owls and all? Because you've- you've  _ bled _ into the water supply?"

"Uh…" Jon shrugged. "I suppose? In the most basic sense, yes. But you have to remember that was years ago, and the magic is still in effect even though the physical traces are long gone."

A horrible thought struck Martin. "What about the  _ people?" _

"What about them?"

"Are they- have they- I mean, could you control  _ them _ the same way?"

Jon shuddered again, full-bodied and horrified. "No. Some do - the Mask Lady, the Lady of Spiders - but… no. I couldn't bring myself to-" he stopped, licked his lips. "Physically, yes. I have a connection with every living thing inside my domain. But to take away someone's free will like that- no. I just couldn't." He looked at Martin, eyes pleading him to understand. "It's bad enough making people tell me their secrets, I wouldn't- the connection I have, all it does is let me know where people are, how they're doing. If someone were to move away, if Gerry or Georgie or anyone were to move to Raverra, I'd always know that they were okay, I wouldn't have to- to  _ stretch  _ myself to learn that. I wouldn't - I couldn't - control someone. I couldn't."

Martin nodded, slowly, and Jon breathed a sigh of relief. "I understand, Jon. So… if it's  _ anyone  _ who's in your domain, does that mean  _ I'll _ always be on your radar, now? You'll know every time I stub my toe, just get this flash of  _ 'oh no, Martin did something stupid'?" _

He laughed, a bit nervously, and Jon joined in. "No, I'm afraid not. You'd need to live here for at least a year for something like that to happen. Even while you're here, you've got this sense of…" he frowned, turning contemplative. "You're different. Everything else fades into the background, just normal life, but… you stand out." 

"Oh." Martin was in serious danger of blushing again. He changed the topic. "How do you make sure the succession goes smoothly, then, if all you have to do is bleed in the water?"

"You… don't, really. It helps if you have direct descendants. Children always have a higher likelihood of claiming the land their parent was tied to - blood, you know - but if they don't make a claim…" he shrugged. "It needs to be someone mage-marked, and it helps if they have similar powers to the previous Witch Lord, but other than that it's a bit of a first-come, first serve. I didn't even really want the job, but when it came down to it there was no one else, so…" He sighed, then stretched out to lay back on the cloak, face turned to the sun, eyes closed. "Here I am."

After a moment, Martin laid down next to him. "What was it like?"

Jon picked up on his meaning without elaboration. "It was… terrifying. I'd gone to all the other claiming sites, bled in the water like I was supposed to, and I could feel my connection to the land growing. But when I got here… nothing could have prepared me for it." He turned to face Martin, his expression rueful. "I thought I was going to die."

Martin's breath caught at the matter-of-fact tone of voice he spoke with. "When that last drop of blood hit the water, I blacked out. I  _ know  _ something happened - I learned something, or I saw something, or… or maybe I learned everything. But I don't know what it was. I woke up back on the surface, curled up in a corner of the mausoleum, with the worst headache of my life and no memory of how I got there. It was… there was  _ power,  _ thrumming through my veins, and this sense of the world opening around me to show me its secrets, but… well, it took me a while to get a handle on it. When I got back to the Estate Georgie told me I'd been gone for three days and she and Gerry had been thinking of sending out search parties."

"That's… that's pretty intense." 

Jon hmmed, turning his face to the sun again.

"How'd you find the place? You know, if you weren't able to order the plants about yet."

He snorted. "I spent a long while thrashing about in the underbrush cursing my lot in life. Gertrude had shown me the way a couple months earlier, though, so it wasn't too bad."

Martin laughed.

They stayed there for a while longer, soaking up the summer sun. They didn't talk much, but it was a comfortable silence. Eventually Jon hauled himself to his feet, saying they'd need to get a move on if they wanted to be back by dinner. 

Martin helped him pack up the bag, and Jon grabbed his cloak and swung it around his shoulders again. He didn't seem to notice that it was covered in grass, and Martin decided not to point it out. Partly because he wondered how long Jon would go on oblivious, and partly because, well… the temptation to grab the Witch Lord by the shoulder and brush off the grass himself was already pretty strong, and if he pointed it out it'd become almost unbearable. He wasn't sure Jon would appreciate the manhandling.

The walk back was uneventful until they got to the stream - a different one than in the underground cavern, but - Martin reflected - still probably connected to the wider grid. Jon was closing up the path behind them, carefully guiding the plants to hide their trail once more. He crossed the stream first, lightly hopping across the stepping stones that protruded from the current. Martin followed more cautiously. He'd had no trouble crossing that morning, but now he was tired from a long day's walk in the forest and distracted by all Jon had told him. He wobbled.

Jon took a step back toward him, reaching a hand out to steady him, but Martin waved him off. He crossed the next few stones without issue and was almost to the other side when he lost his footing entirely, lurching forward in an off-balance tumble that was sure to get him soaked.

Jon caught him.

Martin wasn't entirely certain how it happened - Jon had stepped back when Martin waved him off, and had seemed focused on the plants on the opposite bank, covering up the path. But all of a sudden he was there, catching Martin as he fell and pulling him away from the water. 

Jon's arms were warm around his back, and his heart was beating fast where Martin's hand had come to rest on his chest. Martin gasped in shock, tilting his head up to look at Jon. The Witch Lord wasn't all that much taller than him, when you got down to it, but standing this close together, and Martin leaning into him like he was...

Jon's eyes were wide, his lips were slightly parted in surprise, and there was a tinge of color to his cheeks as he looked down at Martin in his arms.  _ Beautiful, _ Martin thought, before quickly shoving the thought away. His own heart was racing in a way he dearly hoped was due to the surprise of the fall, and he seemed to be having difficulty getting his mouth to work.

"S- sorry," he eventually managed to say.

"No problem." Jon's voice was unusually high. He dropped his arms from around Martin, letting him take a step back, and cleared his throat. "Are you, ah, are you alright?"

"I'm- I'm fine." Martin straightened his shirt, avoiding eye contact. "Uh… thanks."

"Right." Jon looked around for a minute, seeming to search for something else to say. "Right..."

"Should we be going, then?"

Jon nodded, turning abruptly and starting to walk away. Martin followed for a bit, staring at his back, trying to get his heart back to a normal rate. Something was bothering him, though, and after a few minutes it became too much. He stopped.

"Jon, wait."

He turned, an inscrutable expression on his face. "Yes, Martin?"

Martin took a deep breath. "Your cloak is covered in grass. I've been waiting for you to notice, but it's really obvious and it's gone from being funny to just rude not to point it out, so… yeah."

Jon blinked. "It's what?" He turned his head, trying to look at his back over his own shoulder. "Oh, hells." He grabbed a fold of material, drawing it around to the front and brushing at it furiously. Then tried to reach over his shoulder to get at the rest of it. Twisted his torso to get a better angle and ended up rotating on the spot, no closer to getting it clean.

Martin watched, laughing. It was adorable. It was genuinely, undeniably adorable, he'd even go so far as to say it was cute. The Witch Lord was cute.

Grace of Love, Martin was screwed.


	13. The Lady of Wolves

The next few weeks saw them settling into a regular routine. Martin still spent most of his time researching the Witch Lords, but now his lunches were spent eating with Jon in the kitchen. They discussed books and poetry - Jon even brought down a few volumes from his own personal library that he thought Martin might enjoy, and read a few selections aloud. 

He had a very nice reading voice. Martin found himself thinking about it rather more frequently than he would have liked.

Jon joined him in the research, as well, explaining various allusions to events in the Witch Lords' history that Martin was unfamiliar with and occasionally translating passages that were written in another language.

Georgie and Gerry drifted in and out of these activities, lending a hand where they could and providing company when they couldn't. Two days after the visit to the mausoleum they forcibly dragged Martin and Jon away from their books and down to the kitchen to eat. It was well after nightfall by that point, and they still ended up spending hours sitting in front of the fire, talking and laughing. The three Vaskandrans took turns regaling Martin with tales of embarrassing things the others had done in the past, and he shared his own tales of misadventures back in Raverra. 

It had been a nice evening. He did his best to ignore the knowing looks Georgie and Gerry exchanged any time Jon sent him a particularly soft smile.

It was all starting to feel normal, and Martin was getting used to the predictability of his days. So it came as quite a shock when Jon bolted upright in his chair and announced, "We have company."

Martin closed his book. "We what?"

"Company." Jon stood, heading for the door of the Archives. "I've been distracted - should have seen them earlier. They'll be here in less than twenty minutes."

Martin scrambled after him, running a hand through his hair to get it into some sort of order and brushing the wrinkles from his clothes. Jon strode ahead briskly, making his way to the front door. 

"Georgie! Gerry!" His voice echoed through the corridors, but Martin thought it unlikely that they would hear it. "Look sharp! Montauk's coming!"

"Who- who's Montauk?" He was slightly out of breath. Jon could move  _ fast  _ when he wanted. 

"Julia Montauk." Jon pressed a finger to his temple, furrowing his brow in concentration, and suddenly his voice filled Martin's head.

_ Georgie. Gerry. Meet us in the front hall. Montauk's coming. _

Martin was prepared, this time, and didn't jump. "Was I supposed to hear that?"

"Anyone inside the Estate would have, yes." Jon clattered down the main stairs to the front hall, finally coming to a stop facing the wide double doors. Gerry ran in a moment later with Georgie following close behind. They flanked him, one on either side.

"Couldn't have told us about this earlier?" Gerry sounded annoyed.

"Didn't see her earlier."

"Distracted, eh?" Georgie grinned, and Jon flushed.

"Perhaps."

Martin couldn't help feeling a little like he was being protected, with them all lined up in front of him facing the door. He didn't know who this visitor was, but from the way everyone was reacting, he figured she was dangerous.

"Who, exactly,  _ is _ Julia Montauk?" he asked.

Jon glanced at him over his shoulder. His face was set, his expression grim.

"The Lady of Wolves."

~~~~~

'Lady of Wolves' turned out to be far from a metaphor. 

Martin took a step back as they poured into the hall, six huge wolves surrounding the two humans in their midst, although… there was a certain wolf-like quality to the humans as well.

The younger one, who he presumed to be Lady Montauk, pushed her way to the front of the pack, grinning, while the old man stayed farther back glaring at everyone.

"Lord Sims! Hope you don't mind the intrusion!" She stuck her hand out in front of her in an exaggeratedly friendly gesture; Jon shook it with more reserve.

"Of course not, Lady Montauk. It's always a pleasure to see my neighbors."

"You remember Trevor, of course." She nodded back at the old man, who glowered at her.

"How could I forget. And you know the General and Prince Keay." 

"Oh, very well indeed." Her smile was friendly enough when directed at Georgie, but when it turned to Gerry it became positively venomous. He grimaced back at her, and Martin began to realize why the group was being so formal over titles.

"And this is Lord Blackwood. He's visiting from Raverra to study the Archives here." 

Martin jumped when Jon introduced him, and hastily smiled. "Pleased to meet you."

Lady Montauk gave him an appraising glance. "Raverra. Not had much to do with it, heard it's nice." She stuck her hand out again, and he shook it. Her grip was very strong. "Welcome to the wild north." She turned back to Jon. "Sorry to burst in uninvited like this, but you know how it is. Yours is the best shortcut across to Raynor's domain and I wouldn't want to pass through without saying hi."

"Not a problem at all, Lady Montauk; I've always appreciated travelers letting me know they're here. However I'm afraid we're rather unprepared for guests at the moment - were you planning to stay the night, or continue on immediately?"

"We'll stay, if you don't mind. It'll be nice to spend the night in a  _ proper _ bed, instead of just camping in the forest."

The old man snorted. "Maybe for those of us who've gone soft."

Lady Montauk smiled, but didn't turn around. "Oh hush. Beds are a good thing, old man. And baths."

He grumbled unintelligibly into his beard. Martin winced. The bath comment explained the state of  _ that, _ at least.

"Well, you'll find both here, if you're wanting them," Jon said. His composure was unruffled by the bickering, and Martin found himself quietly impressed. Jon was putting on the same cold, professional front he had at the Raverran court, and now Martin knew it was an act he could see how well done it was. He was a different person: Lord Sims, instead of just Jon. The powerful Witch Lord of legend who terrified children in stories told around the fireplace, instead of the awkward, endearing man who liked his tea over-sweetened and had a beautiful reading voice.

Martin forced his mind back to the situation at hand.

"We don't have any permanent staff on hand," Jon was explaining, "so I'm afraid you won't be able to expect the best of service while you're here; but feel free to make yourself at home and let me know if you need help with anything."

"We'll be fine." She waved a hand. "Get by well enough on our own back home, and been here often enough to know how the place works."

"I'll show you to your rooms, then."

"Splendid."

"Also," the old man stepped forward. "So you don't think we came by empty handed-" he swung a bag off his shoulders and dug around in it for a second "-we brought dinner."

It was a couple of dead rabbits. Martin wrinkled his nose.

"Hunted in your _ own  _ domain, I trust?"

"As always, Lord Sims." Lady Montauk grinned, but there was a hard edge behind it. "We know the rules as well as anyone else."

"Thank you very much, in that case. Prince Keay, you know how to cook rabbit, right?"

Gerry shrugged, stepping forward to take the rabbits from Trevor. "I can certainly give it a try."

The Wolf Lady smirked. "You the cook now, Gerard? Always thought you'd be suited to a lower station."

Gerry's hands clenched into fists, and he took a threatening step forward. "And you, Julia? Still crawling around in the bracken hunting for a way to avenge your dear old dad?"

The wolves growled. Jon stepped forward.

"Gerry," he said quietly, putting a hand on his arm.

Gerry looked at him for a moment, then nodded.

"Not worth it, Julia. Maybe some other time."

"I look forward to it."

"This way, if you please." Georgie pushed her way through the circling wolves toward the stairs, gesturing Lady Montauk and Trevor to follow her.

Jon held back for a moment after they left. "Sorry, Gerry. It's just…  _ really  _ not the time or place for that."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks for defusing the situation."

Jon nodded, and turned to Martin. "I think you should go with Gerry, to the kitchen. Stay out of Lady Montauk's way as best as possible. Georgie and I can deal with her and Trevor."

Martin shrugged. "Okay then. As long as you promise to explain what in the holy hells is going on."

Jon laughed, and Gerry stepped forward.

"I'll do that if you help me with the rabbits."

"Deal."

"Thank you. Both of you." Jon laid a hand on Martin's shoulder, just briefly, before turning to follow Georgie and the others up the stairs.

Gerry gave Martin a significant look. Martin flushed and hurried to lead the way to the kitchen.

~~~~~

"Okay, so. What's the deal?"

"The deal is that Trevor's a bastard and Julia's worse but they don't want a war with Jon and he doesn't want a war with them so we all pretend to play nice with each other." Gerry slammed the lid on a pot of water he'd placed over the fire. He'd turned out to be surprisingly efficient in preparing the rabbits, and had spared Martin the gruesome job by placing him on vegetable duty. Now they simply had to wait for the water to heat, and make a stew.

"That was playing nice?"

"Believe me, you don't want to see us playing mean."

He sat down at the small kitchen table. Martin hesitated a moment before joining him.

"And what's  _ your  _ deal with them? That all seemed a bit… personal."

Gerry sighed, leaning back in his chair. "It was a long time ago."

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"Nah, it's not a big deal." He stared into the fire for a moment. "I used to work for my mother. Way back, before she became a Witch Lord, I helped her with her research. Didn't really know what she was trying to do, but, well, she was my mum. I wasn't going to say  _ no. _ Besides, it made her happy, and I liked seeing her happy."

Martin nodded. He knew how that went.

"We lived under Lord Banks back then, but she'd send me all over the place looking for books that might have the information she needed. That's when I first met Julia." He sighed again, running a hand through his hair. "Thought I'd made a good impression, she said yeah, I could look through her library, then I told her the names of a few of the books I was looking for and she set her wolves on me."

He chuckled when he caught Martin's expression. "To be fair, they  _ were _ pretty awful books, though I didn't know it at the time. But, well… our relationship kind of disintegrated from there."

"Understandable."

"Yeah." He shook his head. "Next time we met was after mum did her thing, and she was going around introducing me as 'Prince Keay' to anyone who would listen. Julia didn't take well to some upstart villagers - as she saw us - putting on airs, and  _ I  _ didn't take well to being confronted by the woman who'd nearly killed me a few years before. If I'm being honest the whole rivalry thing is as much my fault as hers, but that doesn't mean I'm going to be dropping it any time soon. She may have just cause for disliking me, but it doesn't make her any less of a bastard."

"So why is she visiting? If she doesn't like Jon either, and she knows you're here."

"Convenience. You heard her mention Raynor?"

Martin made an assenting sound, though he'd been more focused on watching Jon than on what was being said at that point.

"Well, Jon's got one of the domains stuck right between the two of them, so any time Julia wants to go terrorize him she's gotta pass by us to do it. And she  _ really  _ likes terrorizing the Lord of Shadows."

"Why? I thought there was - well, not peace. But some sort of agreement between the Witch Lords?"

Gerry laughed. "It'd take a lot more than an informal agreement to stop Raynor and the Montauks fighting. Yes, there's an overall pretence of peace, but they've had their own private war going on... oh, hundreds of years, at this point."

_ "Hundreds?"  _ Martin's jaw dropped.

"Yeah, Raynor's been at it for three centuries, at the very least. Montauk's more recent, but she's just following along with her mother's vendettas. And trying to get revenge, of course. Raynor killed her father when she was just a kid, so…"

"Oh." Martin was struck with momentary pity; then curiosity won the day. "So was her father a Witch Lord, or…?”

"Nah, just the poor fool who fell for one." He gave Martin another knowing look, which Martin ignored. "But he had fire in him. That's where Julia and Trevor get it from, I think. From what Gertrude told me before she kicked the bucket their mother was a lot calmer."

"Wait,  _ their?" _

"Yeah, Trevor's her brother. Didn't I mention that?"

"You very much did not." Martin dropped his head into his hands, mind reeling. Okay, yes, Witch Lords were immortal, Jon had told him as much. Somehow, he'd still expected them to show signs of age. Lady Montauk looked,  _ at most,  _ a few years older than himself. Trevor looked like he was meant to be in a grave several decades ago.

He scrubbed his hands through his hair, groaning. "This whole immortality thing makes my head hurt."

Gerry lifted a glass in mock solute. "Join the club. If it's any consolation age does take effect after a while. A whole bunch of the old guard of Witch Lords look properly wrinkled, it's just that Julia's relatively new. Like Jon, the Lady of Spiders, the Lady of Flames..."

"Define 'relatively'."

Gerry blew out a long breath, thinking. "Within a century."

Martin groaned.

~~~~~

Dinner was incredibly awkward.

Lady Montauk's wolves circled the edges of the room as they ate, occasionally padding over to the table to catch the scraps of meat she or Trevor threw for them. Gerry ate silently, glaring at both of them, and even Jon spoke in clipped, cool tones that, while civil, were about as far from friendly as it was possible to be.

Georgie kept a smile on her face, except when she was shooting them pointed glares of her own, and engaged Julia in small talk about the weather and how traveling was going. They, at least, seemed to get along fairly well.

Martin hunched over his plate, trying not to meet anyone's eyes, and flinched whenever a wolf passed by too close behind him. He'd always liked the concept of wolves, thinking of them as slightly larger, slightly more wild dogs.

They were nothing like dogs.

It was a relief when the meal was finally over, and Julia and Trevor left to head to bed. Gerry followed soon after in a huff, and Georgie wandered off with an exasperated "Honestly!" and a shake of her head.

Jon and Martin cleared the table in silence. Jon seemed lost in thought; Martin was just tired. Once everything had been moved to the kitchen and stacked for washing the next day, he leaned against the counter with a sigh, letting his head droop forward and his eyes slip shut. 

He didn't open them when he heard Jon move to lean next to him. He bumped his shoulder against Martin's.

"You should go get some sleep."

"Hmm…" Martin shook himself - he was in serious danger of falling asleep where he stood, tilting over onto Jon's shoulder and passing out. "It's surprisingly exhausting to be constantly worried a wolf is going to take a bite out of you."

Jon laughed. "Understandable. I wouldn't let that happen, though."

"Yeah." He knew. He wasn't worried now, with Jon by his side, all warm and tired and smiling at him. He had a feeling his thoughts were going a little off-track in this fuzzy, half-asleep state. "They're not at all like dogs, you know."

"I did know that, yes." Jon gave Martin an amused look, one eyebrow raised. "You're more tired than you look, aren't you? You going to be okay getting to bed on your own?"

"Sure." Martin straightened up. "Just an unexpectedly eventful day. You should head to bed too, you know."

"I will." A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth. From this close up, Martin could almost count the small lines around his eyes, the strands of grey in his dark hair. His mage mark sparkled in the light from the dying fire, and flickered as he blinked. "Tomorrow should be a normal day, at least. They'll leave early."

"Good." Martin shifted, took a step away from the counter, away from Jon. "See you in the morning, then."

"Good night, Martin."

~~~~~

They did leave early, but not quite so early that Martin was able to sleep through it. He joined Jon and Georgie in the front hall to see their guests off, standing back from the group to stay out of the wolves' way.

Gerry wasn't there. It was a fifty-fifty chance whether he was sulking in the Archives, or still asleep.

Julia was chatting with Georgie, discussing road conditions and the weather forecast. Trevor was holding a surprisingly civil conversation with Jon, thanking him for the hospitality - though, if he was truly a Witch Lord's son, perhaps it wasn't so surprising: both he and Julia would have gotten used to the strange political act of feuding in private while showing outward politeness from a young age.

Martin yawned, leaning back against the bannister of the stairway. He hadn't slept as well as he'd hoped, troubled by dreams of claws and teeth and the musky scent of animals that definitely were not dogs.

As if on cue, one of Lady Montauk's wolves came clattering down the stairs to catch up to the rest of the pack milling around the hall. Martin didn't see it until the last second, when it was practically on top of him. He yelped in shock, scrambling backward and away from the stairs; the wolf, startled by the noise and movement and already on edge away from its familiar hunting grounds, went on the offensive.

It growled at Martin, teeth bared and hackles raised; it crouched, body coiling with barely contained energy and the threat of attack; one paw was set down in front of it in a half-step forward, a deliberate intimidation to warn off any foe.

Martin's heart stopped in his chest, and he froze. He'd never stared certain death in the face before. He was doing so now.

And then, suddenly, Jon was there, standing between Martin and the wolf, arms held wide in protection and threat. He  _ snarled  _ at the wolf, a low, guttural sound that twisted in the air and made the hairs on the back of Martin's neck stand on end. The room seemed to darken, and power buzzed in the air.

The wolf backed off, retreating to Lady Montauk and its pack. It wasn't scared, not quite. Just acknowledging that it was in another's territory, and had crossed a line. Julia placed a hand on its head, and the gaze she directed at Jon was cool. 

"Apologies. They are usually better behaved."

Jon nodded. He had dropped his arms, but hadn't stood down. The air still buzzed.

"It's probably best if you leave now, even so."

A twitch of her lips. "Of course. Thank you for the hospitality, Lord Sims. General?"

Georgie inclined her head. "I'll see you out."

Trevor waved as they left, and Georgie gave Jon a pointed look, flicking her eyes to Martin for a brief second before turning away. Then they were gone, and the wolves with them.

Jon breathed out, hard, his shoulders slumping. He turned to Martin with a worried look in his eyes.

Martin, for his part, was also breathing fast, with an elevated heart rate; he knew his face was slightly flushed. The way Jon had stepped in front of him, protective and almost possessive… the resonance in his voice and the way the entire room had seemed to focus on him… the entire scene had had quite an effect on him, and it wasn't because of the wolf.

"Are you alright?" Jon's voice was slightly rough; whatever trick he had pulled on the wolf must have really taken it out of him, but it certainly didn't help Martin's focus.

"That… that was…"

Jon pursed his lips, a frown pulling his eyebrows together, and dropped his eyes to the ground. 

"I'm sorry. That may have been… an overreaction, on my part. I-" he flicked his eyes up again, took in Martin's wide eyes and rapid breaths. "Sorry." He brushed past Martin to the stairs and hurried up, practically fleeing from the hall.

Martin stared after him in confusion. What was Jon apologizing for? Scaring the wolf off? Maybe he thought he'd given the impression that Martin couldn't handle the situation himself, which was true to an extent - but Martin didn't particularly mind if that was the case, because he really  _ hadn't  _ known what to do with an angry wolf in his face.

Maybe Jon had finally noticed the obvious attraction Martin had for him, and was uncomfortable with it. That was a more unpleasant thought.

Whatever the case, Martin didn't see Jon for the rest of the day. He studied alone in the Archives, making small progress on a thick history book, and dined alone for lunch and dinner. Georgie and Gerry both made appearances, so he wasn't entirely alone, but neither of them had any insight on Jon's disappearance. It was, all in all, a dull, lonely day.

It wasn't until late at night, warm under several layers of blankets and trying his best to fall asleep, that it occurred to him that the reason Jon left might have been because he thought Martin was scared - not of the wolves, but of  _ him. _


	14. Important Conversations

Martin woke early, determined to find Jon and set the record straight. It was a surprisingly difficult task: the architecture of the Magnus Estate was nothing if not complex, and there was no sign of Jon in the areas Martin was familiar with. He ended up spending almost an hour wandering around dusty corridors and unused rooms, looking into every nook and cranny he came across in an attempt to find the Witch Lord. 

He eventually succeeded in a small room on the top floor. He could hear the murmur of Jon's voice from down the hallway, and when he poked his head around the door he found the man himself.

Jon was sitting on the floor, legs curled underneath him, scratching the Admiral on the head. The cat was spread out on the floor, basking in the attention and purring loud enough that Martin could hear him from the doorway. He could also, now that he was close enough, hear what Jon was saying to the cat.

"How do I handle this, hm? I don't want him to be scared, but how do you convince someone you mean them no harm when you're the monster they tell stories of to frighten children?"

“Well, sulking on the floor talking to a cat is a good first step.”

Jon jumped in shock and spun around, throwing a hand behind himself to avert a fall.

“Martin! I, uh. I didn't hear you come in.”

Martin left the door, walking over to Jon and sitting down next to him. The Admiral pawed at his leg, purring, and he scratched the cat's head with a smile.

"Yeah, you seemed a bit distracted."

Jon nodded, took a deep breath and started to speak - then sighed. He began again. "I'm sorry about yesterday. I didn't think- I didn't  _ think. _ I shouldn't have- I didn't mean to scare you. I wouldn't-  _ please  _ know that I wouldn't do something like that without good reason. And- and I wouldn't hurt you, Martin."

"I know."

"I just- what?"

"I know." Martin smiled again. "I wasn't scared, Jon. I mean, yeah, okay, I was scared of the wolves. Not of you."

Jon stared at him in surprise, a soft  _ oh _ escaping his lips without his seeming aware of it. Martin leaned over, nudging Jon's shoulder with his own. 

"So can you stop hiding, now?"

Jon flushed, looking away. A small smile that he was clearly trying to repress danced around his mouth. 

"I wasn't hiding."

"You totally were."

"I  _ wasn't.  _ I just had… things to attend to." He glanced at Martin. "But I'll stop."

Martin shifted into him again, a proper lean this time instead of just a nudge.

"Good."

~~~~~

The next few days found them sliding back into their comfortable routine with barely a hitch. Jon had begun attempting to bring some order to the next row of shelves in the unsorted section of the Archives, and Martin had pulled a comfortable chair into the aisle near him to continue his reading. 

He bounced ideas off Jon as the Witch Lord moved books and files off the shelf, sorting them into various boxes to be looked at later. At the moment he was launching a complex query on the vulnerability of Witch Lords to illness, given the apparent death of a previous Lord of Knives to the flu.

"So I was wondering…" Martin trailed off. Jon had just rolled the sleeves of his shirt up, warm from lifting so many boxes, and scattered up and down his arms was a series of pale, circular scars. They looked almost like-

"Sorry, Martin, what was that?" Jon turned around to see why he had stopped, pushing sweaty hair off his forehead with one hand.

"Your scars. I've got a friend in Raverra with an almost identical set, I'm just… surprised you've got something similar, I suppose."

"Oh." Jon glanced at his arms, wincing. "Your friend didn't happen to run afoul of Jane Prentiss, did they?"

"Yes." Martin glanced at Jon in surprise. "Wait, so are those actually from her?"

"Most definitely. A little memento of my journey to this domain before I became Eye Lord." He started shifting boxes again. "Not an experience I'd care to repeat."

“Oh. That's… horrible." Tim had never talked much about getting attacked by Prentiss - the fight, yes. His injuries, no. Still, Martin knew it had been… well, he hated to think of  _ anyone _ going through that, let alone another person he cared about. "So you weren't born here, then?” He was rather surprised. From all Jon had told him, and all he'd read, moving between the Witch Lords' domains was an unusual, and dangerous, occurrence.

“No, I grew up much farther north, in the domain of the Spider Lord.” Jon paused, and Martin frowned as his casual air shifted to one of reminiscence. There was some old sorrow hidden in his eyes Martin didn't dare to guess at, drawing bitter lines around his mouth and adding the weight of years to his face. It was… not handsome, exactly, but quite striking in a melancholy way.

After a few moments of silence he shook the gloom away. “Anyway. Eventually I escaped across Prentiss's lands, though the worms were not the kindest to me.” He indicated the pockmark scars on his exposed forearms. “When I crossed the border into Gertrude's lands she took me in. It's not supposed to work that way - as you know, those born in the domain of a Witch Lord are supposed to be tied to the land they live on, but Gertrude… Gertrude found a way to get me free. Same as she did for Gerry, I'd imagine. No matter what else she did, I'll- “ he smiled ruefully. “I'll always be grateful to her for that.”

It was the same vagueness Jon - and Gerry, and Georgie - always got when discussing the previous Lady of Eyes. Martin figured he'd been around the Estate long enough at this point to earn some clarification. "What happened to her, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Jon sighed, shook his head. "She was betrayed. Her advisor - Elias, I'm not sure if you've heard of him - wanted power, and he knew he'd never live long enough for Gertrude to pass on the Witch Lord's mantle willingly, even if she  _ had  _ planned to pass it to him. So he took matters into his own hands."

"Wait, he  _ killed _ her?" Why hadn't he heard of this before? This was  _ literally  _ his only purpose in spending so long digging through old history books - finding out how to kill a Witch Lord. And this whole time Jon had known-

"He had help, believe me. Gertrude was not an easy woman to take down."

"What happened?" Martin leaned forward eagerly in his chair. Jon shrugged, abandoning the shelf he had been working on and pulling up a nearby chair to face Martin. 

"I don't know all the details. None of us knew what Elias was planning until after it happened. Well-" He rolled his eyes.  _ "I _ didn't know. And neither did Georgie or Gerry. According to Gertrudes's own notes she'd suspected Elias was planning something for a long time, but she never bothered to tell us."

"Seems like kind of a dumb move."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? I don't know, though. Gertrude was… well, even if it got her killed, I have a hard time believing any move she made was unintelligent. She just had an air about her."

"Probably comes with the whole 'all-knowing Eye Lord' thing." Martin quipped.

"Then what went wrong with me?" Jon's tone was just offended enough that Martin almost missed that he was joking. He caught it, though, and snorted. Jon grinned.

"Seriously, though. I don't think anything she did was ever truly dumb. Unsuccessful, yes, but not unintelligent."

"She must have been an amazing woman."

"In some ways, yes. In others, she was a heartless, cruel pragmatist." Jon sighed. "But you wanted to know how she died, not how she lived."

Martin almost said he didn't care, as long as it was Jon telling him. But he bit the words back. He really  _ did _ need to know, and aimless flirting wasn't exactly a winning strategy for that, especially since he wasn't sure if Jon returned his feelings. He forced his thoughts back to the matter at hand.

"The short version is that one morning Gerry came downstairs to find her body lying on the front steps in a pool of blood. She had been shot, and Elias was missing, along with his pistol. We all panicked a bit, but Gertrude had prepared us enough in her roundabout way that by the end of the day I was already off to the claiming sites to make myself the next Eye Lord, and Gerry and Georgie were preparing a funeral. We buried her at the mausoleum a few days after I finished claiming the land. We all knew Elias had done it, by then - he was the only one who could have. But we didn't know how."

"And… do you know now? It can't have been just a bullet."

"Three bullets, actually. Three shots to the chest. But no. Like I said, he had help."

Martin raised his eyebrows, making a  _ go on _ gesture with one hand. Jon smiled a bit at that, and shook his head. 

"Would you believe we didn't figure it out until we got the wedding invitation?"

Martin's brain shut down. "The  _ what?" _

"The wedding invitation, to the nuptials of Elias Bouchard and Peter Lukas. He married the Lord of Solitude."

"The- the one that's attacking Raverra? Or, well- planning to?"

"The very same." Jon grinned at his flabbergasted expression. "Apparently they'd been seeing each other for quite a while." 

"Oh my god." Martin put his head in his hands. "And I thought  _ Raverran _ politics were messed up. What the hell does that have to do with Gertrude's death?"

"Lukas helped Elias kill her. I believe the plan was that once she was gone Elias would lay claim to this domain, and the two would rule forever, immortal lovers and kings. I'm not sure what went wrong, why Elias was delayed in claiming the land, but his failure to ascend to Witch Lord didn't stop their wedding."

"That's insane. Romantic, but insane." Jon laughed, nodding in agreement. "So how did it actually happen? If it wasn't the bullets that killed her, what did?"

"I'm afraid I only have speculations to offer on that front. But if I'm correct - and I may not be - it  _ was  _ the bullets that killed her."

"How is that possible? Wouldn't she just heal?"

"You'd think. It's-" Jon scrubbed a hand over his face, hunching forward. His expression was one of intense focus, and Martin realized that he had stumbled onto a problem that had been haunting Jon for years. This wasn't him explaining a theory to Martin - this was him actively building the theory, reworking and revising information he'd gone over hundreds of times before in the hopes that he'd get a clearer answer this time.

"Lukas's powers work differently than my own. He's not just  _ tied  _ to the land, he sort of… carries it with him as well. He's not the only one - Sky, Earth, obviously the Maze and Doors... they can all sort of -  _ manifest  _ bits of their domain wherever they need to. Or- it's nowhere, and they just send you there." Jon sighed. "I'm sorry, I'm not explaining this well. The point is Lukas can snap his fingers and suddenly you're in a copy of this world, completely devoid of any life other than yourself and whoever he's chosen to send with you. Even though it might look like the place you were before, even if it's a perfect copy of the Magnus Estate itself, while you're there, you're in Lukas's domain. It's… it's not done, to send other Witch Lords there against their will. I've never heard of it happening before. I'm not even sure if it's  _ possible.  _ But if Lukas somehow managed to trap Gertrude there…"

"She'd have been powerless."

"Not completely. She…" Jon trailed off, eyes widening. "Actually…"

"What?" Martin leaned forward. Jon was staring off into the distance, lost in thought. "Jon?"

He snapped back to focus, turning to Martin in excitement. "You might be right. It's- look, to kill a Witch Lord you need immense amounts of power and a willingness to kill innocents - well, not for the Lady of Masks, I suppose, nothing in her land is untainted by her power at this point - but you need enough power that even if they draw all the life from their entire domain, it won't be enough to heal them."

"Hang on-"

_ "Or," _ Jon talked over him. "You need them to make the decision to give up their life, sacrifice themself so they don't hurt their land. I always thought Gertrude made the choice to not draw on her power, but that doesn't really seem like something she'd do. If Lukas could cut her off from her power  _ entirely, _ though… but how does that help us?  _ I  _ don't have a place to banish people that annoy me…"

He trailed off again, giving Martin an opportunity to voice his thought from earlier. Instead he just stared. Jon was muttering on about possible ways to utilize this new information, talking about the war as though it were his fight as much as it was Martin's. His chest warmed at the thought.

"Actually," Jon straightened up again. "The Lord of Mazes isn't terribly fond of Prentiss. If I can convince Helen to go along with it, they might be able to deal with her in their corridors… of course, that still leaves three Witch Lords to fight, and there's no way they'd be able to help with all of them…"

Martin pushed aside questions of who and how and corridors? What corridors? to the side for the moment. "If the Lady of Masks was gone, the others might stop the attack. She's the driving force behind it."

"Well, yes, but that still leaves us with the question of how to get rid of her? I  _ definitely  _ won't be able to convince Helen to help with that one."

"You said nothing in her land was worth saving, though, didn't you? So all we need to do is wear her down. Kill everything, and she dies."

"Martin, that would take  _ massive  _ amounts of power, far more than I have at my disposal."

"A fire warlock could do it."

Jon laughed. "A fire warlock? Yes, yes, I'm sure a  _ fire warlock _ could do it just fine. But somehow I doubt Jude will be terribly inclined to help you." His tone was bordering on mocking, but Martin brushed it off. He knew Jon sometimes lost track of his social graces, and it didn't reflect on his true opinion of Martin's ideas.

"Who?"

Jon blinked. "Jude Perry? Agnes's bodyguard?"

"I don't know who that is."

"Oh." Jon frowned. "Agnes Montague is the Lady of Flames. She's not a true fire warlock, as her powers tend more towards generating pure heat rather than burning things, but her bodyguard, Jude,  _ is. _ And she won't help you, I can tell you that right now."

"You know her?"

"Indeed." Jon extended his right hand to Martin, tilting it back and forth in the light. From this close up, Martin could see the skin was faintly shiny, scar tissue well healed by the time that had passed but still visible under close observation. He stretched his own hand out, gently grasping Jon's and running his thumb over the back. Jon smiled slightly. "She tried to burn my hand off once, back when Gertrude first introduced me as her heir. The scars faded significantly when I became Eye Lord, but if Agnes hadn't stepped in to stop her I don't think I'd have much of a hand left to speak of."

Martin glanced up, frowning. "Agnes stepped in? Gertrude didn't do anything?"

"No. She didn't."

He released Jon's hand, and they both leaned back. Martin didn't really know how to engage with this confirmation that Gertrude had been a - how had Jon put it? A "heartless, cruel pragmatist." Jon didn't seem inclined to discuss it either, and silence fell for a few moments as they both sat lost in thought. Then Martin brought himself back on track.

"Be that as it may, I wasn't talking about the Lady of Flames. I meant Melanie."   
  
Jon blinked. "Who's Melanie?"

"Melanie King. She's one of Raverra's Falcons, a friend of mine. She's a fire warlock."

_ "What?"  _ Jon shot up in his seat, jaw dropping. "There's a  _ fire warlock  _ in Raverra? Since when?"

"I don't know, about thirty years, or something? Give or take a few? She's never really said. She's been with the Falcons about five years, though."

"There's been a fire warlock in the Falcons for five years?"

Martin laughed. "You seem  _ way  _ more surprised by this than the occasion warrants."

"Do you  _ know  _ how rare that ability is? Each and every fire warlock has left a scorched and smoldering trail across the pages of history, and you're telling me there's been one in Raverra for five years that  _ I didn't know about?" _

"You're the one who keeps saying you don't know everything."

"True." Jon subsided. "This is just… big. I'm honestly not sure why Raverra's panicking about the war, if they've got a fire warlock waiting in the wings."

"Well, she's not exactly in control, yet. She keeps burning things she doesn't mean to."

"That's why your Falcons have those clever little bracelets of theirs. Cut off the power as soon as it gets out of hand. But this won't need control. This just needs power, pure, unfiltered power and scorched earth."

"I think Melanie can do that."

"Well then, Martin Blackwood," and Jon gave him a wide-eyed, amazed look. "I think you just figured out how to win your war."


	15. Tokens

Jon caught him in the corridor outside the Archives the next day. He looked… disheveled. Like he hadn't slept. His expression was one of hesitance, and his hands were shoved into his pockets. 

"Hey, Jon. Is everything alright?"

"It's… it's fine." Jon bit his lip, frowning. "I'm just… I'm not sure the right way to say this."

Martin shrugged, grinning. "Then say it the wrong way and we'll figure it out together."

That got a laugh. "Okay. Well, there's, uh… there's something I want to give you. If you want it."

"Okay?" Jon seemed extraordinarily nervous for such a simple thing. "What is it?"

"I, uh, made it last night." He drew one hand out of its pocket, clenched in a fist around some object Martin couldn't see. "It felt like... it seemed an appropriate time for such a thing. Given our conversation yesterday." He opened his hand, stretching it forward so Martin could see what he held.

It was a small rock, mottled green and black, the perfect size to nestle in Jon's palm. Carved on the upward-facing side was an open eye. The pupil was painted silver.

"It's a token, of sorts. It means- it's a mark of friendship, sort of. I doubt it would mean much in Raverra, but to a Vaskandran it means you're… well, under my protection, in a way. It means if anyone messes with you, they're going to have to answer to me."

Martin reached out to take it, slightly disbelieving that Jon would give him something so significant. Jon drew his hand back a fraction before he could.

"Before you take it. You should know, it's… well, it's also a tracker, of sorts. It comes from the very bones of this place, from the foundations of the Estate itself, and I'll always know where it is, so if you take it… I understand if you don't want-"

Martin placed his palm over Jon's before he could finish, and the Witch Lord's speech stuttered to a halt. Martin let his hand linger there for just a moment longer than necessary before curling his fingers around the stone and lifting it away. He met Jon's eyes, and smiled.

"Jon. Thank you."

Jon let out a huff of laughter, a relieved smile curling around his lips. "You are very welcome, Martin."

Martin tucked the stone carefully into his pocket, inclining his head toward the door of the Archives. "Shall we?"

He made his way to the fictional section, eager to finally delve into the books of poetry now he didn't have to worry about digging through dusty old history tomes. Jon followed after, hands tucked into pockets again and a thoughtful expression on his face.

He leaned against the shelf behind Martin, watching as he ran a finger along the row of books, scanning titles. Martin glanced back, frowning. 

"Everything alright?"

"What? Oh, uh, yes, everything's fine. Just, uh… thinking." He scrubbed at the back of his neck, not meeting Martin's eyes. "You can take some of them with you, if you like. When you, um…" he trailed off, shoving his hand back into his pocket.

"When I go back to Raverra?" Martin smiled. He knew how much Jon cared for his books, so this seemed like almost as meaningful a gift as the stone. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Jon flashed him a small smile before looking away again. Martin turned back to the books, grabbing a few that looked interesting. Jon snagged a novel off the shelf behind him, and they headed for one of the reading nooks by the windows. Jon took a deep breath as they sat down. 

"I'm guessing it'll be soon, then?"

"Sorry?" Martin glanced up from arranging his stack of books on the table. "What will be?"

"Raverra. Now that, you know, you have your answer, how to stop the Lady of Masks, I'm sure you'll want to be heading back."

"Oh." Martin sat down abruptly. He hadn't even considered… but of course. Jon had invited him here for research, and agreed that he could stay until he'd found out how to save Raverra. And… he'd figured it out. They could win the war, or at least take out one of the biggest threats. So there was no reason for him to stay any longer. No reason, except for the fact that this odd building, lost deep in the Vaskandran wilderness, had begun to feel more like home than his family's mansion back in Raverra ever had, and the idea of leaving it behind forever set a feeling somewhat akin to panic settling deep in his bones. He missed Raverra, of course, missed the river and the Mews and all the little shops and restaurants he was used to visiting. Missed Tim, and Sasha, and Melanie, and even Basira and Daisy, although he didn't know them that well. But… 

But he'd miss the forest, too, when he left. And the Archives, and the kitchen, and all the unexplored nooks and crannies of thousand-year-old architecture, and, Graces have mercy, he'd miss the incessant eyes carved and painted on every flat surface with scant regard to pleasant interior design. And Georgie, and Gerry. And Jon. 

Grace of Love, how could he ever leave Jon?

"Y-yes, I suppose so. I mean, I probably should. Let them all know, and, you know, I don't want to overstay my welcome here…" he tried to laugh. He had a feeling it was rather unconvincing. 

"No! You're not- that is to say…" Jon cleared his throat, getting his voice back to a more neutral register. "The welcome extends indefinitely, if you'd like to stay. I mean,  _ I'd  _ like you to- I just assumed you'd want to go home, I know you didn't exactly come to Vaskandar… willingly."

Martin blinked. His original fear of the northern wilderness seemed so far removed, he'd almost forgotten it had ever been a factor at all. He truly didn't want to leave. And Jon… Jon didn't seem to want him to leave, either.

"Well, I mean… your original invitation was that I could come up to explore the Archives at my leisure, and I haven't exactly had a chance to do that. Seems a shame to leave without taking at least  _ some  _ time for myself. And they're not expecting me back at the border for a least another couple of weeks."

Jon glanced up at him, and there was no denying that the emotion in his eyes was pure, unfiltered hope. "So… you're going to stay?"

"Yes." Martin smiled. "Yes, if you'd be so kind as to extend the invitation… I'd like that."

Jon smiled back, relieved and hopeful and so bright Martin almost had to shield his eyes. "Me too."

They turned to their books. Well, Jon did. The tension he had been carrying all morning had dissipated the second Martin said he would stay, and he relaxed back in his armchair with a content sigh, pulling out his reading glasses and propping the novel open on the table in front of him.

Martin watched out of the corner of his eye, pretending to read. It was the same pair of blue-tinted spectacles Jon had been wearing the night they met, and Martin had to admit that they framed his face quite nicely. Tim may have been right: there  _ had  _ been a certain amount of 'chatting up the handsome stranger' behind Martin's introduction. Well. He wasn't exactly going to start feeling guilty about that  _ now. _ It had turned out rather well, all things considered. 

He focused back on his book. Love poetry, of all things. Appropriate, for his current mood.

As he read, he became aware of a tingling in the air. The faintest sense of power, rising above the background hum of watchfulness that was omnipresent in Jon's domain. It was different, though. This was focused, observation of  _ him  _ in particular, closer to the force that had hit him that night in Raverra when Jon had asked about his deepest secrets. But while that had held the cold, calculating weight of an artificer calibrating their newest device to ensure functionality, this was softer. Closer to the stare an artist would give a thing of beauty: curiosity and wonder and the helpless desire to preserve the scene before them, intermixed with the knowledge that no work of art could ever compare to the real thing.

He glanced up. Jon was still fixated on the book in front of him, ignoring Martin. But - and perhaps Martin was just imagining this - he appeared to be blushing.

Martin fought back a grin, turning back to the book in his hands. The idea of the Lord of Eyes staring at him while he read should have been immensely disturbing, but he found it didn't bother him. Quite the opposite, in fact. He reached a hand into his pocket, running a finger over the warm stone Jon had given him. There was a matching warmth glowing in his chest.

~~~~~

He pulled the stone out again at breakfast the next morning, running his thumb over the carved eye to feel the grooves. Both Georgie and Gerry were dining with him; Jon had left early to handle some business in the nearby village.

Gerry spooned cereal from his bowl, talking with his mouth full and nodding at Martin's hand. "What'cha got there?"

"Hm? Oh, Jon gave it to me yesterday." Martin held up the stone, turning it so the others could see the carving. "He said it was a token of friendship, that it means I'm under his protection."

There was a clatter from the end of the table. Georgie was staring at him, eyes wide, oblivious to the fact that her fork had taken the plunge from her fingers to the table and down to the floor. 

Gerry grinned. "Alright there, Georgie?"

She shook herself. "Fine. That was- Jon really gave that to you?"

"Yes." Martin frowned. "Is that- I mean, you seem pretty surprised."

"No, no, I just-" Georgie shrugged, composure regained. "Didn't realize you two were so close already."

"Oh. Well, yeah, we're… we're friends, yeah? If this is some Vaskandran way of showing that…"

"Actually, it's more like he's making you a part of his fam-" Gerry's comment ended in a sharp yelp as Georgie kicked her foot out under the table, presumably making contact with his shin. "What was  _ that  _ for?"

"What was what?" She turned to smile at Martin innocently. "I think it's wonderful Jon gave you that token. Good on him for finally expanding his social circle."

Martin laughed, carefully tucking away Gerry's unfinished sentence for consideration later. "I mean, it's still pretty small."

"But growing! So there's hope." Gerry was rummaging around in his pocket. He pulled out a small object and slid it across the table to Martin. "Pass the rock, I want to take a closer look. Swapsies."

Martin glanced at the object on the table. It was a small stone cylinder with artificery runes carved around the sides and a small switch at one end. He drew it closer, simultaneously pushing his own stone toward Gerry. There was a certain amount of reluctance in the gesture. He knew Gerry would give it back, of course, but… he didn't want to let it go.

"Niiice." Gerry drew the word out as he turned the stone over in his hand. "He must have spent hours on this, look at how neat the carving is."

Georgie leaned over to see. Meanwhile, Martin was examining the cylinder. He'd seen something of its like back in Raverra, and suspected this had come from there: artificery wasn't really practiced in Vaskandar. Flicking the switch caused a small flame to appear, hot enough to light a campfire but more commonly used for cigars. Hidden in among the artificery runes was a small carved eye.

"He gave these to us almost as soon as he became Eye Lord." Georgie was watching him. As soon as she had his attention, she pulled a dagger from her belt, turning it to show him the handle. A stone band was wrapped around it, near the hilt, also bearing the eye.

"Yeah. And I don't think he's made any since. Until now." Gerry pushed the stone back toward Martin, reclaiming his lighter. Georgie gave him a sharp look at the comment, but didn't contradict it. 

Martin took the stone back, curling his fingers around it protectively. He'd suspected, from the way Jon had acted, that it was a significant gift. He hadn't realized it put him in a group comprised only of the two people Jon had known the longest, and trusted the most, in the world. 

"I'm not quite sure what to say to that," he admitted. 

Georgie shrugged, smiling. "You don't have to say anything. Jon giving it, and you accepting, says it all." She reached for her plate, then froze. "Where's my fork?"

Gerry snickered. "Might want to check the floor."

"Oh, gods damn it." 

The ensuing search, and discovery of the Admiral hidden under the counter licking egg remnants from the pilfered silverware, was enough to disperse the serious atmosphere of the room. By the time Jon got back from the village the three were deeply distracted by the cat and cat-related stories, and all discussion of the significance of the tokens was long abandoned. 

Still, Martin couldn't help that his smile was slightly softer, and more fond even than usual, when Jon asked him how his morning had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been illustrated!
> 
> [@ashes-and-kites’](https://ashes-and-kites.tumblr.com/) art can be seen [here.](https://cirrus-grey.tumblr.com/post/631958956450938880)


	16. Miscommunication

The following two weeks passed in a blur. Martin spent most of his waking hours with Jon - reading in the Archives, walking in the forest, experimenting with some spectacular (and some spectacularly awful) cooking in the kitchens. It was so  _ easy, _ spending time with him. They'd reached a new level of understanding, and all Martin's awkwardness and hesitation seemed to have bled away in the face of Jon's friendship. He could be himself,  _ completely  _ himself, with no fear of embarrassment or humiliation. It was the same level of comfort he had around Tim and Sasha, only reached at a much earlier point in their relationship. He felt like he'd known Jon his entire life.

In short: Martin was falling, and he was falling hard.

He still didn't know if Jon returned the romantic aspect of his feelings, but on a platonic level at least he seemed to feel the same, letting Martin see the softer, more vulnerable side of himself he so often tried to hide. It seemed he shared Martin's feelings of inadequacy over the political position he held, having been almost as unprepared to become Eye Lord as Martin had been to take on the Blackwood mantle. It went a fair way to explaining why he'd been so terribly guilty about drawing that particular secret out of Martin, even after he'd apologized.

It was the happiest Martin had ever been, and even the fact that Basira and Daisy had made contact and were expecting him back at the border in a week's time couldn't dampen his spirits.

Martin took a bite of his scone - a product of one of their more successful culinary adventures - and smiled at his book. Afternoon tea and reading had become one of his favorite routines. He'd had a similar routine back in Raverra, of course, but it felt different to share it with someone. 

As if reacting to his thoughts, Jon jolted upright in the chair across from him, lowering his book as a grin spread across his face. His expression held the distant, out-of-focus look Martin had come to recognize meant he was seeing with eyes other than the ones in his head. 

"What's up?"

Jon snapped back into focus. "Gerry and Georgie. Come on, you'll want to see this." He stood, taking a last sip of tea and heading for the door. Martin didn't move. 

"Have you been  _ spying  _ on them?"

"It's not  _ spying,  _ it's-" he stopped when he saw Martin's expression. "Maybe a little. Look, they know I do it, they'd ask me to stop if it bothered them. Now come  _ on,  _ you don't want to miss this." He stepped back toward Martin, grabbing at his arm to pull him from his chair. He was still grinning, and the enthusiasm was contagious; Martin let himself be pulled along.

He followed Jon out of the Archives and down to one of the Estate's main reception rooms, on the ground floor. For a moment he thought they'd be going in, but at the last minute Jon pulled him aside into a small adjoining room. He put a finger to his lips, motioning silence, and crept across to the wall that abutted the reception room. He seemed to be staring very intently at one of the carved eyes on the paneling. 

He glanced back, grinning, then frowned when he realized Martin was still over by the door. He waved him urgently to the wall, and as soon as he was within range grabbed him by the arm again to pull him even closer. 

Martin's pulse picked up. Jon was leaning into him, warm against his shoulder, and they were oh so very cozy and intimate here, pressed against the wall. It took him a moment to realize Jon was pointing at a small crack in the paneling, right below the carved eye. It was a spyhole, one of the many that riddled the walls of this place, and through it Martin had a surprisingly clear view of the room on the other side.

"I've been trying to set those two up for  _ ages."  _ Jon's breath tickled the shell of Martin's ear. He'd bent his head down next to Martin's to whisper, peering over his shoulder so they could look out the spyhole at the same time. Martin's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, reveling in the sensation. Then he opened them again to see what Jon was talking about.

Gerry was sitting near the wall they were hidden behind, head tilted back against his chair and loose hair draped over the back of it. Georgie stood behind him with a brush, gently combing it into order. It was an intimately domestic scene, and Martin found himself embarrassed to be watching. Surely they should be given privacy? 

Jon whispered again, and his thoughts scattered in the warmth against his ear. "I honestly thought they'd get together after Georgie and I broke up, but it never happened." Jon had told him about he and Georgie's short-lived attempt at romance. Martin had been in tears laughing by the end of the story. It honestly didn't surprise him that Georgie hadn't wanted to repeat the same fiasco with Gerry.

She leaned down to whisper something in his ear, and he laughed quietly, tilting his head back farther to meet her eyes. Their faces were very close, and Martin raised an eyebrow as one of Georgie's hands came to rest on Gerry's shoulder, thumb brushing gently against the material of his shirt. Jon gave a small  _ "Ha!" _ of satisfaction at the sight.

Then, as Georgie moved her hands back to begin putting his hair in a braid, Gerry said, "Bets on if he's watching or if he's distracted by Martin."

It was plenty loud enough to be heard by their hidden audience. Georgie smacked him on the arm, abandoning the braid. "They're in the other room! Didn't you hear them talking?"

"What." Jon's voice was monotone shock.

"Damn it." Gerry spoke at the same time, turning to face the wall Martin and Jon were watching through. There was no way he could see them, but it still felt like he was looking right at them when he continued. "We know you're there, Jon!" 

"We promise to stop messing with you if you promise to stop trying to get us together!" Georgie's voice was full of laughter, but there was a genuinely annoyed undercurrent to it.

Jon cursed, pushing himself away from the wall and dragging Martin with him. They ran, hand in hand, out of the room and down the corridors - though there wasn't really anything to run from. A short distance away they ducked into another room and slammed the door behind themselves, collapsing against it out of breath and laughing. Martin was the first to speak.

"Okay, so you're the worst matchmaker in the  _ world." _

"You-" Jon gasped in another breath, still laughing. "You may be right." He dragged himself upright, squeezing Martin's hand briefly before letting it go. "Still, I did tell you. They  _ definitely  _ know I spy on them sometimes."

"And they're  _ definitely  _ taking full advantage of that fact." 

Jon flushed, and Martin laughed again, pushing himself away from the door to examine the room that they'd ended up in. He vaguely recognized it as one of the myriad sitting rooms that filled this place, but it wasn't one he'd spent a lot of time in.

Jon followed, wandering after him as he walked over to examine the fireplace. The mantelpiece was intricately carved, eyes and vines and flowers all wound together in a complex tangle. Martin ran a finger over the pattern, tracing its lines, before turning to Jon again.

"So, leaving aside how hilariously bad that espionage turned out, why do you want to get those two together?" 

Jon shrugged. "I just think they'd be good together, you know? They've got a lot in common, they get along like a house on fire, they've been friends for years…"

"Nothing wrong with a friendship that doesn't turn into a romance."

"I know." Jon leaned against the mantelpiece, not meeting Martin's eyes. He sighed. "I just… I guess I'm worried? That they'll never find anyone else, you know? Being friends with a Witch Lord, it's… well, it's not like they've got many opportunities to meet people. People can get… nervous, about it, they don't always want to get involved with someone so close to someone powerful." 

"Sounds lonely."

"Yeah."

Martin considered saying that he didn't really think that was Jon's problem. That Georgie and Gerry seemed happy enough as it was, and that both were outgoing enough to handle forming relationships outside Jon's small circle of influence if they so desired. But he didn't think they were talking about Georgie and Gerry anymore.

"Well, those people are idiots."

"What?" Jon blinked at him in surprise.

"Powerful people are still people. They've still got likes and dislikes, strengths and insecurities, just like everyone else. Still got unique personalities. They're still-" he smiled, "-just as likely as anyone else to be pretentious, and aloof, and a know-it-all. To put their foot in their mouth or stampede over everyone else's ideas because they think they know best." Jon flushed again. "And they're still just as likely to be kind, too, and gentle. To use their power for good instead of evil, to want to be better even if they don't know how. To talk to cats, and joke with their friends, and get ridiculously excited because a complete stranger expresses interest in their pet project." Martin took a step closer. "And there's risks in every relationship. That doesn't mean it's not worth it to try."

Jon met his eyes. "Do you really believe that?"

"Yes, Jon. I do."

The Witch Lord leaned forward, and Martin's breath caught in his throat. Jon's eyes were dark and intense, even as they drifted closed, and he was inclining his head for - could it be? - a kiss.

This couldn't be real. He'd imagined it so many times, there was no way it was actually happening. His heart pounded in his chest. This couldn't be happening. There was no way Jon - the  _ Lord of Eyes, _ one of the most powerful people on the entire continent - returned his feelings. Friendship, yes, but he'd never dared to actually believe there was more to the soft looks and the words and the time spent together, moments snatched from the universe before Martin would have to return to-

The reality of the situation crashed over him.

This  _ couldn't  _ be happening. Even if the idea of a Witch Lord falling for some random Raverran lord wasn't utterly ridiculous (and he had to accept, now, that it wasn't: it had happened), even if Jon wasn't a Witch Lord - he was still a Vaskandran, and Martin was still leaving for Raverra in a few days’ time. 

This couldn't  _ be. _

Clenching his fists against the regret welling up inside him, Martin stepped back, breaking the intimacy of the moment. Jon's eyes opened, and Martin could see confusion shining in their depths.

“Martin?”

“I- I'm sorry,” he stuttered. “I just- this isn't-”

For a second, hurt flashed across Jon's face, raw and wounded. Then it was swept away by icy calm, the aloof coldness Martin had thought long gone. He shivered. Jon wore this face so well. Could he really be sure this wasn't the true one, and the warm, caring man he called a friend was the falsehood, wielded to manipulate him to some as of yet unknown purpose?

But no. He knew better, now. The coldness was just a mask, “Lord Sims” just a facade that Jon could put on to hide his true feelings. Martin ached to think that Jon felt it necessary to don it in front of him again.

He knew it wasn't real. Still, Jon's next words might have hurt less if it was.

“I understand completely. My apologies for misunderstanding your intentions."

Jon turned to walk away without another word, and Martin wanted to call after him. He wanted it so much it was like a physical pain in his chest, wanted to tell Jon  _ no, you've got it wrong, I want this too, it's just politics and I have to leave and- _

But he didn't, and Jon left the room without looking back.

~~~~~

A few evenings later Jon found Martin in his rooms, trying his best to distract himself with a book of poetry. It was one Jon had recommended to him, a few weeks back. It wasn't helping much. 

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to make the farewell dinner we had scheduled for tonight. It seems I have some unexpected guests arriving.” Jon's tone was cold, but he was fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves as he spoke and he wouldn't meet Martin's eyes. "It would be best if you stay in your chambers while they are here."

Martin nodded mutely, not trusting himself to speak. The self-inflicted wounds were too fresh.

Jon waited a moment to see if he had a reply, then turned and swept out the door without another word.


	17. Unwelcome Visitors

Martin managed to hold out for almost ten minutes before his curiosity got the better of him. 

The Estate was dark and empty in the evening's hush, and Martin crept along the corridors with more caution than perhaps the occasion warranted. There were voices coming from the same reception room that Georgie and Gerry had staged their little pantomime in a few days before, and he slipped into the adjoining room quietly, pulling the door nearly shut behind himself. 

The spyhole was easy enough to find now that he knew what he was looking for, and he allowed himself only a moment to miss the warmth of Jon beside him before peering through. His breath sounded too loud in the quiet of the room.

The reception room was lit by dozens of candles, their light reflecting off various well-placed mirrors to shed a golden brilliance over the entire scene. Jon, Georgie, and Gerry stood in the middle of the room, heads bent together and talking too low for Martin to hear. Jon was dressed in formal attire, Georgie in her armour. Gerry was in his pajamas, and after a moment Georgie grabbed him by the arm to drag him out of the room. Whoever these guests were, they were important enough that Jon was going to meet them alone.

The door opened again. Or… wait.

_ A  _ door opened, but it wasn't the one Georgie and Gerry had left through. It wasn't one Martin remembered seeing before… wasn't one that was there, a moment ago. 

A woman stepped through. Or someone that looked like a woman. There was something…  _ off _ about her, some sharpness or wrongness or… Martin could feel his eyes start to water as he looked at her. It was like trying to focus through a pane of old, warped glass. 

"Lord Sims. I do apologize for the short notice, but you know how the others can get. No patience." Her voice was wrong too.

"It's no trouble, Lady Helen. We all appreciate the service you and Michael provide us. We'd never all get the chance to meet, if we didn't have your doors."

"He'll be along in a minute. He's just making sure no one gets lost."

"Of course."

Martin shivered. Jon had explained, eventually, about the Lady of Doors and the Lord of Mazes. They were…  _ different.  _ They managed the same domain, shared an identical power, and were utterly and completely a force for chaos in Vaskandar. The only thing they could be trusted to do was to facilitate rapid transport between the various domains when there were urgent matters the rulers of the land needed to discuss. If they were the ones bringing Jon's guests to the Estate…

The door opened again, and Martin felt his heart rate spike.

The Witch Lords were coming.

The first person to enter the room was tall and pale. Even his clothes were stripped of color, faded greys that gave him an insubstantial, ghostly appearance. He nodded at Lady Helen, smiled at Jon, and looked around with a proprietorial air. 

"I like what you've done with the place. Gertrude always left it so terribly gloomy, didn't she?"

Martin blinked. The man was… cheerful. Upbeat. His voice did not match his appearance one bit.

"Gertrude never cared much for fashion, no. I'm glad you approve of the updates, Lord Lukas."

Oh.  _ Oh.  _ So this was the one that had helped kill Lady Robinson. A closer look showed that, yes, there was a wedding ring around his finger. Any further observations were cut short by the arrival of the next Witch Lord.

There was a carpet of worms around her feet, writhing and squirming and horrible. Prentiss looked almost exactly as Martin would have expected, though the floor-length red ballgown seemed a little out of place. She smiled with half a face.

_ "Sims."  _ Her voice was a tortured whisper.

"Prentiss." Jon's cold and professional front did not crack, but Martin could see the tension in his shoulders, even halfway across the room. He felt a matching tension rising in himself. Here was the monster that had terrorized his homeland, hurt his friends. He was powerless to do anything against her, especially under these circumstances, but  _ hells,  _ did he want to. She wouldn't be the main target for the Raverran counterattack, but he wanted to see her  _ burn. _

She was followed by… either an old woman or a corpse, Martin couldn't be sure. Her skin was pale - what little could be seen of it through the tattoos that covered her. They looked like writing, but it was in no language Martin knew. She was clutching a thick, leather-bound book, and she turned to Jon as soon as she set foot in the room. 

“Where is my son?”

Jon responded to the sharp question with surprising grace. “I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Lady Keay. His whereabouts are no longer your concern.” 

“He'll be back, you know. When he finally learns the sting of mortality.”

Jon paused, his head tilting to the side. Martin could hear the immense restraint in his voice as he replied, with forced politeness, “I'll be sure to pass on your regards.”

She snorted, brushing past him into the room. 

No one followed her, and for a moment Martin thought that was the last of them. Then a figure spun out of the door, moving with the grace and ease of a dancer, and landed in front of Jon with a deep, mocking bow.

_ "Hello,  _ Jon!" It was another cheerful voice, even more so than the Lord of Solitude - but there was no mouth to speak it. No lips to form the mad smile that lingered behind the words. "Can I  _ call  _ you Jon?" 

"I'd prefer if you didn't, Lady Orsinov."

_ "Wonderful!" _ She spun around again, dancing past him into the room. "It's a nice place you've got here, Jon!"

There was a certain rigidity to her movements, grace without fluidity. Her outfit was outlandish, a brilliantly red coat and pitch-black top hat. And her face…

Her face was nonexistent. Smooth porcelain replaced what should be skin, no mouth, no nose. Where her eyes should have been were two faint rings of paint, tracing out a blood-red mage mark.

The door creaked shut behind the last visitor, a blond man with the same warped appearance as Lady Helen. They took up positions on either side of the door, ready to bring the others back to their own domains when the meeting was over.

The porcelain figure clapped her hands together, and though she had no face, her cold smile was clear in her voice.

"Shall we call this meeting to order?"

The Lady of Masks had arrived. 


	18. Politics

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company? No one informed  _ me _ there was going to be a Conclave." There was a certain level of sarcasm behind Jon's words. Martin had done enough research on the Witch Lords to know that Conclaves were rare, and only called when all fourteen Witch Lords were needed to make decisions that they all would have to follow.

He smiled at the humor, but the others ignored it.

"You're quite lucky we didn't call one. You'd have been easily outvoted on continuing this war of ours, and then you'd have no choice but to break that careful neutrality of yours and join along." This from Lukas, whose cheerful voice stood at odds with the threat in his words.

"And are you here about the war? As you say, I am neutral. You won't convince me to join."

_ "Neutral, and yet you host an ambassador for the other side."  _

Jon turned to Prentiss. "I'm afraid you're mistaken. If you are referring to Lord Blackwood, he came here as a researcher, not an ambassador. And I would gladly open my doors to researchers from any of your domains as well, if you asked it of me."

"Be that as it may, he  _ is  _ the reason we're here," Lukas smiled.

"Mar- Lord Blackwood? What do you want with him?"

"Why, he's  _ important,  _ that's what!" Orsinov scuttled closer to Jon. "We can't have him running off back home, now can we?" 

"Important? You must be mistaken. I can assure you, Lord Blackwood has next to no political clout in Raverra." Harsh, but true. Martin could forgive Jon for that, especially because he could see the panic rising in the Lord of Eyes. It wasn't a particularly obvious thing, but the longer the other Witch Lords talked about Martin, the more closed off and rigid Jon became. He was scared.

"Maybe not  _ before,  _ but he's an ambassador now! He's on his way up in the world!" The bright voice was grating on Martin's nerves. Tim had told him the Lady of Masks was nightmarish. He hadn't mentioned she was so hellishly  _ peppy. _

"And what do you want with him?"

"We want  _ him!" _

Lukas stepped in. "What my ally here means to say is we simply wish to detain him for a while."

_ "Detain _ him?" Jon's voice was ice, and Martin's blood ran cold. 

"Just for a little while. As a citizen of the enemy, he becomes our enemy, and surely you must understand the importance of holding such people accountable for the threat they pose. We just want the opportunity to apply some… political justice, as it were."

"Lord Lukas," Jon took a deep breath. "As has been established already, I am neutral in this conflict. That means Lord Blackwood is safe to visit my domain without being under threat by you, just as you are safe to be here without threat from Raverra. Do you honestly expect me to just hand him over?"

"You're not  _ protecting _ him, are you?" Lukas sounded genuinely shocked.

“Surely  _ you _ understand the value of protecting people from ‘political justice,’ Lord Lukas. How  _ is _ Elias doing, by the way?”

Lukas gave a cold smile. “Quite lonesome, I'd imagine, with me on the road. Would you rather I brought him along next time?”

Jon returned the smile with one of his own, equally icy. “I'm sure I'll manage if you don't. Do be sure to tell him I was asking after him, though.”

“Of course.”

"Don't change the subject." Martin jumped. The comment had come from Lady Keay, who up until now had been wandering the edges of the room, examining the various bookshelves that lined the walls. He hadn't noticed her approach his viewing spot, but now that she had drawn his attention he realized she was almost level with him. She turned from the wall to face the rest of the room, but before she did Martin caught a glimpse of her face, and more specifically her eyes.

Lady Keay had no mage mark.

Whatever she had done to seize her domain must have been even more drastic than he'd thought, if she hadn't even had powers to begin with. He wasn't surprised Gerry had never mentioned it.

"Now, Lady Keay, surely two old friends are allowed to discuss the personal along with the professional?" Lukas gave Jon a sidelong glance, looking to get a rise out of him, but he ignored it.

"I'm sorry to say, Lady Keay, there is nothing more to discuss on the subject. I will not compromise my neutrality for the sake of your war. If you'd like a Raverran prisoner, you'll have to go to Raverra itself for the opportunity."

_ "You will still be neutral."  _ Martin got some satisfaction out of watching Lukas jump when Prentiss spoke. She'd moved up directly behind him without him noticing, and he stepped hurriedly out of the way as her carpet of worms spread out on the floor where he'd been standing.

She cast him a disdainful look before continuing.  _ "Accidents happen on the road all the time. Raverra need never know you turned over their ambassador to us. You will not lose their favor, and you will gain much in the eyes of your fellow Lords." _

Jon raised his eyebrows. "Are you suggesting I help you kidnap an innocent man and lie to his government about it?"

"Why not? There's no risk to you and your precious neutrality."

Jon's head snapped around. "My neutrality is more a matter of principle than of action, Lady Keay. The 'risk,' as you say, holds little sway over my decision. Besides," and Jon spread his hands, smiling slightly. "The matter is a moot point anyway. Lord Blackwood is no longer residing in the Magnus Estate."

_ "What?"  _ The cry came from several of the Lords at once.

"He is no longer here. He left several days ago. At the moment, he's…" Intense pressure in the air; Jon knew Martin was watching, now. "...just over the border, in the Raverran fortress guarding the road. If you want him, I suggest you look for him there."

_ "Lies!"  _ Prentiss hissed.

"You would doubt the word of a Witch Lord in his own domain?" There was no overt threat in Jon's words, but Martin could feel the change in the air: Prentiss had overstepped, and everyone knew it.

A ripple ran through the carpet of worms on the floor, drawing it closer and tighter around her. She was going on the defensive.

_ "Not doubt, no, just…" _

"It just seems rather  _ convenient, _ is all, Jon!" Lady Orsinov stepped carefully through the worms, coming up to lay a conciliatory hand on Prentiss's shoulder. "He's  _ gone  _ just at the moment we need him?"

"Convenient or not, I can't change the facts. I'm sorry to say your journey here has been a waste of time."

Lukas gave Jon a calculating look, weighing his words. When he spoke, there was a hint of a threat hiding behind that ever-present cheer. “This war, it could help us all, Lord Sims. More ground, more territory, more  _ power.  _ You don’t have to remain neutral in this.”

“And yet I choose to. I won’t risk the safety of my subjects on some foolish quest for power.” Jon held Lukas's gaze steadily. After a moment, the Lord of Solitude bowed his head.

"Very well, then. I believe that is our cue to leave."

Movement by the far wall: Lady Helen had swung open the door again and was waiting to conduct the Witch Lords back to their own domains. 

"Farewell, Lord Lukas. Lady Keay." Both nodded politely, stepping through the door without another word. Orsinov gave a small, disappointed sigh before following.

"Oh,  _ Jon. _ You realize you're being no fun at all, don't you?"

Jon smiled grimly. "Do feel free to drop by any time, Lady Orsinov."

She tilted her head to the side in what was clearly a pout, before taking a graceful spinning leap through the door. Prentiss began to follow, and Jon held up a hand.

"One moment, if you please."

The Lady of Worms paused in the doorway, glancing back.

“If there is a  _ single _ one of your worms left in my forests by the time the sun rises…” Jon didn't finish the threat, merely giving another grim smile.

She inclined her head in acknowledgement, the corner of her ruined mouth twisting up - in a grimace or a smile, there was not enough left to her face for Martin to say which it was.  _ “Of course.” _ Her escort of worms closed in closer around her, and she swept out of the room after her companions.

Lady Helen followed immediately behind her, but Lord Michael hung back for a second, trading a knowing look with Jon.

"Quite a mess you've got on your hands here, Sims."

"I have every intention of cleaning it up soon."

A smirk. "You need my help." It wasn't a question.

"No. I'm just… making a suggestion. Should certain events come to pass as I believe they might, there may come a time when Lady Prentiss… well, when she needs a door."

"And you want me to provide one."

"I am aware of the fact that there is no love lost between the two of you."

Lord Michael laughed, and Martin clapped both hands over his ears in sudden pain. There was something…  _ grating _ about that laugh, something  _ wrong  _ and  _ twisted  _ that burrowed into his skull. It trailed off into an amused sigh, and Martin uncovered his ears in time to hear the Lord of Mazes give his parting remark.

"You make an interesting suggestion, Sims. I'll see if Helen shares your views." 

And then he was gone, and the door with him. Jon stood silently for a moment, staring at the space where it had been. Then he turned around, eyes seeking the point in the wall he knew Martin was watching from. By the time he found it, Martin was long gone.

~~~~~

Less than twenty minutes later Jon was outside Martin's door, knocking softly.

"May I come in?"

Martin hesitated for a second before answering, but… they'd have to have this conversation at some point.

"Yeah, it's not locked."

Jon pushed the door open slowly, closing it carefully behind himself before moving into the room proper and taking a seat across from Martin in front of the small fireplace.

"You saw all that?"

His voice was carefully neutral, but Martin read a reproach in it. He bristled. “I think I'm allowed to know when people are discussing my fate.”

“Indeed." Jon waved a hand, dismissing Martin's defensiveness. "I'm not upset - this place was built for watching. I would be a fool if I didn't think that went both ways.” 

"Oh." Martin deflated, staring at his knees. "Um, Jon?" He saw Jon glance up out of the corner of his eye, bit his lip. "Thank you. For- for protecting me."

"Of course, Martin." There was something unbearably soft about Jon's voice. "I'm not going to let them hurt you."

"Thanks." Martin fiddled with the fabric of his trousers just above the knee. He still didn't meet Jon's eyes. "But, I mean- why? You're- all your neutrality, and you just straight-up lied to them about me? You- I mean, it looked like you made some pretty serious enemies in there."

Jon laughed softly. "Probably." Then he sighed. "But, Martin… can you truly not see how much I care for you? Neutrality be damned, they're not laying a finger on you if I can help it."

Martin thought back to the fireplace, to a hurt look in the silver eyes he knew so well and an almost-kiss. He closed his eyes, sighing in turn. He was setting out for the border in the morning. "Thank you. Again."

Jon didn't reply. After a moment he took a deep breath, standing from the chair and turning for the door.

"I should go, let you get some sleep. You… you have a long journey in the morning."

"Alright." Martin stood as well, hesitating as Jon made his way to the door. He had his hand on the handle, already pulling it open, when Martin came to a sudden decision. "Jon, wait."

He turned. "Something wrong?"

"No, it's just-" Martin walked over to him quickly, sticking out his hand before his resolve could waver. "After all that's happened, the last few days, I understand if-" on his palm rested the small stone Jon had given him, a promise of protection and friendship, marking him as forever tied to the Lord of Eyes. The silver carving on its face glittered in the firelight. "If you don't want me to have this, anymore."

Jon lifted his hand, and Martin couldn't quite stop his fingers from curling protectively over the stone, trying to hold it close just a moment longer.

Jon's fingers closed over his, warm and strong, and folded the stone back into his palm.

"Keep it. It's yours."

Martin's breath caught, and he tightened his grip on the stone. Jon was standing so close, and his eyes were so serious and sincere as they met Martin's. It would be so easy to lean forward and kiss him, right now, undo the damage he had done that moment at the fireplace. He swayed forward.

Jon cleared his throat, stepping back and dropping Martin's hand. Martin shook his head slightly to clear it.

"Right, well, that's- if that's all settled, then, I should be getting on."

"Right, right." Martin nodded, shoving the stone back in his pocket. "I'll be getting to bed soon, you should probably do the same."

"Of course." Jon grabbed the handle again, opening the door. Then he hesitated. He glanced back over his shoulder, and smiled at Martin. It was soft and fond, the warm light of the fire smoothing away the ever-present worry lines around his eyes. "Sleep well."

"You too." And Jon was gone, closing the door softly behind him. Martin took a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh as he sat back down in front of the fire. He really ought to go to bed, it was true. It was late, and he had a long day in the morning.

He sat there, staring into the fire, until long after it had burned itself down and nothing but ashes remained.


	19. Leaving

"Well, it was... it was a pleasure to visit, thank you for inviting me." Martin held his hand out for Jon to shake. Definitely not proper etiquette for a Raverran, but to hell with it. He couldn't bear the thought of parting from Jon with as much stiffness and formality between them as there had been when they met.

They were standing by the front steps of the Estate, early morning sunlight throwing long shadows to their side. The carriage was parked behind Martin, and Georgie's soldiers moved around packing his luggage into it, checking the horses' harnesses, securing weapons… It created a bustling air of productivity around the scene, but where Jon and Martin stood it was still. A bird sang.

Jon reached out slowly to take his hand. Instead of shaking it, he raised it to his lips and bestowed a gentle kiss on the back, an ease to his movements that had been missing since that moment at the fireplace. Martin's breath caught. "Come back any time."

Martin nodded, speechless. There was so much he wanted to say, but… 

"Ready when you are, Lord Blackwood." One of the soldiers stood by his shoulder, gesturing at the carriage. No time. There had never been enough time.

Martin turned to climb into the waiting carriage. He could see Georgie frowning at him from her horse, but he chose to ignore it. Jon lifted his hand in farewell as the door shut. "Be seeing you."

Martin smiled weakly, and waved in return, and the carriage lurched as the procession set off. He glanced back once, as the road turned a corner and swept the Estate out of sight. Jon was still standing by the steps, staring after them until the trees hid them from view.

~~~~~

"So…" Georgie was riding by his window again, gaze fixed determinedly ahead even as she spoke. "You wanna tell me what happened?"

"Not particularly."

She gave him a brief glance. "Come on, Jon hasn't told me  _ anything." _

"There's nothing to tell."

She huffed, frustrated. "That bad?"

"Worse."

That earned him a sympathetic look. She reached into the basket behind her, pulling out the sleepy Admiral, and maneuvered him through the window and onto Martin's lap. 

"Cat therapy. Always helps."

He laughed a bit at that, burying his fingers in the soft fur. "Thanks."

"No problem." Her lips twisted into a frown. "I understand if you don't want to talk about it. But if you think it would help, I'm here. I may be Jon's friend, but… I'm yours too, you know? I won't take sides."

Martin inhaled shakily. He'd managed to avoid crying over the whole situation up until this point, but Georgie was putting that achievement at serious risk. "Thank you. For everything."

"Of course. It's what friends are for." 

He nodded, and she gave him a small smile before clicking to her horse and moving up to the front of the guards. 

Martin was grateful. He needed the time to think.

Jon was- well, he clearly cared a  _ great deal  _ for Martin, lying to his fellow Witch Lords to protect him and letting him keep a talisman that basically declared him a member of his own family even though Martin hadn't responded in kind to his…  _ gestures of affection, _ as it were. Even though Martin was leaving, never to return, and from this point on they might as well be strangers to each other in the eyes of the world.

He turned the stone over and over in his pocket, fingers tracing the carved eye.

He didn't know what to call whatever it was he felt in return for Jon, whether it was affection or infatuation or love.

He knew exactly what it was. But it hurt too much to admit it, even to himself.

The ride back to the border was quiet. Martin's mood spread through the rest of the party, and it was a much more solemn group that arrived back at the Raverran border fortress than the one that had left it so long ago.

Daisy and Basira were waiting when they clattered into the courtyard, arms folded and severe looks on their faces as the horses came to a halt. They relaxed marginally when Martin stepped down from the carriage.

"Martin! Thank the Graces you're back, Colonel Stoker's been breathing down our necks for weeks looking for an update." Basira stepped forward, arms falling to her sides as she smiled. 

Martin tried to smile in return, but it was strained.

"Hi Basira. Daisy. How have you been?"

"Eh. Worried. News coming in about our defenses hasn't been good. A lot of hopes are resting on you." Martin winced. It wasn't that he'd forgotten why he had originally gone to Vaskandar - there was a war on, that wasn't something that slipped your mind - but it had seemed much less important over the past few days, what with everything that had happened between him and Jon.

"I do have news on that front. I- I'll tell you later."

"Good." Basira turned to Georgie, who was still standing back by the carriage. "General Barker. Thank you for getting Lord Blackwood back to us safely."

"Sure thing." Georgie nodded. "We'd best be on our way back to the Estate, though. Martin, you good here?"

"Um, yeah." Martin shifted awkwardly. "Goodbye, I guess?"

Georgie smiled, walking over and pulling him into a hug. "Oh, don't stand on ceremony." She held him tightly. "I'm going to miss you."

Martin hugged her back, tears pricking at his eyes again. "You too."

"Come back to visit. You'll always be welcome."

"Y-yeah. We'll see."

She clapped him on the back as she pulled away, then nodded at Basira and Daisy. "Until next time, then."

The carriage turned ponderously, and Martin stood watching the Vaskandran escort ride away. Basira stepped up beside him, one eyebrow raised. 

"Made a friend?"

He tensed at her teasing tone, anticipating censure for getting close to a Vaskandran.

"Several, actually."

"Huh." He waited for the barrage of questions, the demands for stories and the answers he had found... but she just turned back towards where Daisy stood, waving a hand vaguely over her shoulder as she went. "You should send a full report about what you learned to Colonel Stoker tonight over the courier lamps. We'll be leaving for Raverra first thing in the morning."

"Alright." Martin was left alone in the courtyard as they walked away. He turned back to the gate. Through it, he could see the road winding its way back across the Vaskandran border. Georgie and the rest were just disappearing into the trees, the shadows swallowing them whole. 

He shivered, for a much different reason than the first time he had stood in this spot, watching those trees. The air around him felt empty without the ever-present attentiveness of Jon's power in the air, the trees on the Raverran side of the border feeling lifeless and dead in comparison to the Vaskandran ones. He had gotten so used to the all-encompassing watchfulness of Jon's domain that to be without it felt terribly lonely.

There was a rustle of wings overhead, and Martin glanced up. An owl swooped by, circling the courtyard once before sweeping up again, over the wall and off to the Vaskandran forests. He watched it go, an unexpected pang of loss hitting him. What he wouldn't give to be able to follow it home.

He sighed. That wasn't home, though. Home was where he was heading tomorrow, with its bustling city and friends, its politics and responsibilities. 

Casting one last, regretful glance back at the vibrant forest behind him, Martin went inside.

~~~~~

That evening he sent a brief message to Tim containing the most pertinent details of all that had happened - how there was no official alliance, but the Lord of Eyes seemed to have some scheme afoot with the Lord of Mazes and the Lady of Doors; how their best hope was still Melanie, and all her unbridled power.

Tim's reply was an unending string of questions, demanding to know everything that had happened to him and all the gruesome details of the Eye Lord's power that he must surely have learned. Martin elected to defer answering those particular questions until he got back to the city. He wasn't ready for the "I've fallen for the man you think is the epitome of evil" conversation quite yet. 

In this he was aided by the communication system they were using. The courier lamps, while being an immensely impressive achievement in the field of light-based semaphores technology, linking one end of the land to another at a moment's notice via relay posts set on high hillsides and towers across the Empire, a boon for both politics and trade, etc., etc., were… well, bloody annoying to have long conversations on. Particularly if you weren't well-versed in the proper codes, which Martin wasn't. Tim grumbled for a bit about being a low priority in Martin's life, and received all the proper friendly insults in return; but eventually he agreed: they would talk when Martin got back to the city.

Daisy and Basira didn't press for details either, though for their part it was more from well-placed tact than inconvenience. Martin gave them the basics of the more militarily important points, and they seemed to sense he wasn't in the mood to discuss the rest: both cast him several long, searching glances, but accepted without fuss that he had come back from Vaskandar with far less fear than he had entered it.

They rode out the following morning at dawn. The forest was quiet in the early light, lifeless and dead. A low fog crept between the trees, and Martin shivered, pulling his cloak tight around his shoulders. 

It was a grey and dull day, for a grey and dull journey. The soft clopping of the horses' hooves and the creak of the carriage wheels were the only sounds to break the stillness around them; Martin found himself missing the endless rustling and birdsong of Vaskandar. Basira stayed with him in the carriage for most of the morning, but after a brief pause to eat lunch on the side of the road she joined the escort outside, on horseback. Martin didn’t blame her. He wasn’t exactly good company, at the moment. 

She pulled her horse up next to his window as evening began to fall. 

“We’re not going to make it to the next town before nightfall. You alright with camping?”

He shrugged. “I’ve no objections to it.”

“Good.” She clicked her tongue, urging her horse onward, and began issuing orders to the group. 

The trees in this part of the forest were sparse enough that they could set up camp in view of the road without too much trouble, though they had to leave the carriage tied up on the verge. Martin leaned against a tree as the soldiers prepared the campsite, collecting wood for a fire and leading the horses away to find a stream to water them. He wanted to help, but he had a feeling he’d just get in the way if he tried. 

There was a noise in the woods behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, frowning. It had sounded like footsteps, only… not. Too uneven, but at the same time too regular to be just falling leaves or branches. It was getting too dark to see if there was anything there.

“You noticed it too?”

He jumped, spinning back to face the campsite, and Daisy’s hand shot out to catch his shoulder and keep him from falling.

“Whoa. Just me.”

“Daisy!” Martin took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. “Sorry, I’m just- just a bit on edge. Not used to… trees.”

A small smile flickered at the edge of her mouth, and she raised an eyebrow. “Never would have guessed, city boy.” Then her eyes narrowed, scanning the forest nearby. “It’s not the trees I’m worried about, though.”

“What?” Martin had been sure his own unease was an overreaction to leaving Vaskandar. If Daisy felt something was off too… “What’s wrong?”

“Too quiet. Should be… birds, or something. Squirrels.  _ Life.” _

“Oh.” So it wasn’t just quiet in comparison to Vaskandar - it was actually unusual. “What, ah… what does that mean?”

“It  _ means,  _ something here is worth hiding from. Might want to hold on to this if you don’t want to lose it.” Martin jumped again as Basira appeared beside him. She shoved his bag into his arms, then turned to Daisy. “You were right. There’s something off about them.”

Daisy nodded. “Off enough that we leave?”

“If we can get to the horses, yes. You know how to ride, right Martin?”

“I- yes, I’m not very good at it, but why-”

“We’ll explain once we’re gone. Come on.” Daisy and Basira turned in unison back toward the camp - they would have to cross it to get to the horses - and Martin followed fast enough that when they stopped in their tracks, he collided with them. He bounced back a step, and was about to ask what was wrong when he saw what had made them stop. 

Standing in an uneven line between them and the horses, filling up the spaces between the trees and staring ahead of them with blank, expressionless faces, were the soldiers. They didn’t move. They didn’t even acknowledge that they had been seen. They just stood there, wavering slightly like unstable scarecrows.

Daisy drew her pistol. Basira grabbed a knife, obsidian blade thick with artificery runes, from her belt. Martin froze.

“When I give the word,” Daisy spoke softly. “You run. Got it?”

“I’m not leaving you two.” Martin was surprised how steady his voice was.

“You’ll put us in danger if you stay. We’re better off if we’re not trying to protect you and fight at the same time, and we can hold them off while you get out. Okay?”

“Are you sure this is going to come to a fight? I mean, they’re just- just sick or something, right? Not-”

The soldier on the far left side of the line took a sudden step forward. Her arms swung with the motion, and-

-and kept swinging. Or the skin did, at least. The momentum of the step pulled the skin off her hands like gloves, and the arms followed after, and the face. By the time she stopped moving, her skin had slid off entirely to reveal a body stitched of sawdust and flesh, features shifting and malleable in the low light.

“Yes,” Daisy said, and raised her pistol. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Martin ran.

Shots rang out behind him, and a strange, electric humming he could only guess came from Basira’s knife. It was shockingly quiet, for a battle. Daisy and Basira fought in silence, and the flensed figures didn’t have the lungs to scream. 

Martin had planned to head for the road, but as he approached he saw the strange way the ground shifted and moved. Worms - he turned again, dashing back for the safety of the trees, the bag in his arms weighing him down with every step. 

So that was Orsinov, Prentiss… fog was rolling in across the ground again, and Martin cursed. Lukas. He was being herded back toward the campsite and the battle that raged there.

He ducked to the side, hoping to skirt the fight and reach the horses. Not that he had much confidence in his own ability to mount a panicking animal and steer it away, but at least it was a plan of sorts. One hand fumbled in his bag for the flare Basira had made him, fingers finding the crystal that would activate it.

Sudden movement in the trees ahead. Martin skidded to a stop just in time to avoid barrelling into the shadowy figure. Another, off to the side, and another, and if he didn’t act fast they were going to circle him and cut off any chance of escape. He raised a hand over his eyes, lifting the flare in his other hand and flicking the crystal onto the correct wire. 

It was a silent explosion, bright enough that he could see it even through his eyelids, even through his hand. The wires remained cold in his grip, all the energy that was released converted directly into light with no heat. It started fading within a few seconds; as soon as he dared risk it, Martin dropped his hand from his eyes and prepared to run. 

The woods around him were lit with a stark, cold light, casting sharp shadows back from the trees and figures that circled him. He was at the center of it all, a single point of light in the darkness of the forest.

Martin squinted in the harsh light, looking for a break in the figures that he could run through, and his heart dropped. They hadn’t been affected at all by the flare. Indeed, they had not even seen it.

Standing in a circle around him, greying skin slack on their bodies and holes in their faces where eyes should be, the corpses advanced. 

Dead hands grabbed Martin from behind and he shrieked, trying to pull away. It was no use - there was a terrible, implacable strength in that cold grip, and more hands joined the first, pinning him in place no matter how hard he struggled. His bag was torn from his grip, the now-dull flare falling to the ground; he felt a sudden, nonsensical stab of guilt that Jon’s books would be ruined.

_ Keay.  _ The thought was bitter and venomous. Then there was an impact, a bright flash of light and pain in his skull-

And Martin Blackwood fell to the forest floor, unconscious. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seems like a good time to remind everyone about that wonderful little ‘happy ending’ tag at the top of the page.


	20. Another Perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for the obligatory "what’s the world look like from the _other_ side of the pine tree?" chapter.
> 
> ‘Cause they’re pining, geddit?

The teacup shattered on the floor.

Jon stared at it. He’d become quite a fan of tea, recently. Martin’s advice on preparation techniques had certainly helped with the bitterness, and the copious amounts of sugar and milk didn’t hurt at all. It was more than that, though. The taste, the smell… both had become strongly associated with Martin himself, and Jon reveled in the reminder of quiet afternoons alone with him.

A small trickle of liquid was making its way across the wooden flooring toward Jon’s sock. He watched it, unmoving.

Martin was  _ gone. _

Footsteps, drawing near. “Hey, Jon, have you seen…” Gerry’s voice trailed off. “Jon?”

He was gone, like a candle going out, a bright point in Jon’s peripheral awareness that suddenly  _ was not. _

“Hey. Hey, are you okay?”

He’d been glowing in Jon’s mind since he’d accepted the token, a quiet assurance of his safety and health, and now  _ he was gone. _

“Jon? Jon!”

Jon took a slow breath, and when he let it out he was crying. He collapsed forward, slowly, pitching into Gerry’s arms. Gerry caught him with a grunt, dragging him back into his chair and sitting on the arm. Jon leaned into his side, letting his tears soak into his jacket as Gerry ran a soothing hand across his shoulders. 

“I can think of at least ten possibilities for why you’re crying right now, can you help me out and tell me which one it is?”

Jon’s breath hitched; his voice was a croak. “He’s  _ gone.” _

“Ohhh, I see.” Gerry patted him on the head consolingly. “Finally caught up with you? You held up rather well these last few days, I thought.”

“N-no,” Jon scrambled upright, grabbing Gerry’s arms to pin him in place. He had to see, he had to  _ know.  _ “He’s  _ gone.  _ From  _ everywhere.  _ I can’t see him, I can’t feel him, he’s  _ gone.” _

Gerry froze. “What?”

“He- he was  _ there,  _ heading for Raverra, I wasn’t watching him but he was  _ there,  _ and then he was  _ gone. _ He  _ is _ gone. He- he’s-” Jon choked on another sob.

“Whoa, whoa, hang on. What do you mean  _ gone?”  _ Gerry looked out the window at the night sky. “Are you sure he didn’t just fall asleep?”

Jon stared at him, fighting the anger that was building in his chest. Why didn’t he understand, why didn’t he  _ see?  _ This was no time for jokes, Martin had just  _ di- _

“I’m positive. People don’t just disappear on me when they fall asleep.”

“Okay. Okay.” Gerry put a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Hey. Calm down, okay? No need to jump to the worst conclusion.”

“Gerry, I  _ know _ what it feels like when someone-”

“Yeah, you’ve told me before, folks just go away sometimes. But that’s people from  _ here, _ yeah? People you’re tracking because they’re part of the land. Martin’s not like that, is he?”

“He-”

_ “Is he,  _ Jon?”

Jon took a deep breath. Tears were still streaming down his face. “No.”

“Right. You were tracking him through that token, yeah? That stone you gave him?”

“Yes.” Jon closed his eyes. Gerry was building up to a point, here. He tried not to let it give him hope.

“So if someone takes a token, like this-” Jon cracked his eyes open again, following Gerry’s movements as he removed the lighter from his pocket. “-and does  _ this-”  _ He tossed it across the room to land on a different chair. “Do I go dark to you, or does it just feel like I’ve moved over there?”

Jon focused. It was difficult, even in the best of circumstances, to distinguish the signal of the lighter from that of Gerry himself. But after a moment or two he could feel it. Gerry, here, next to him, and the lighter a little more than ten feet away.

“You don’t go dark. The lighter just becomes a thing of its own, a separate point to track.”

“Right. And it would be the same if I died.” Jon flinched. “Hey, stay with me. It’d be the same, yeah?” Gerry’s voice was gentle. “You’d feel  _ me _ disappear, but not the token. And what you just felt from Martin, that was the token. Not him.”

It took a moment for that to sink in. Then Jon bolted upright, sudden hope flaring through him. “You’re right!”

“Of course I’m right, I’m always right.” Gerry scoffed.

Jon shook his head, ignoring the obvious attempt to distract him into an argument. “But then what happened? I can’t-” He pressed his fingers to his temples, searching. “I can’t see the token at all. How does a  _ rock _ die?”

“Dunno.” Gerry shrugged. “Crushed, maybe?”

“No, the dust would still be part of the land, part of  _ me.” _ Jon scrambled from the chair, placing his feet carefully to avoid the shattered porcelain. The Archives were dark, but he didn’t need light to see. He set off into the maze of shelves, Gerry following after with a sigh. There were books in here that could help, books on claiming and the bonds it created. He just needed to get lucky and find the right one.

“I think you’re focusing a little too much on the rock, to be honest.”

“What?” Jon shook his head, trying to clear some of the tears from his eyes. His vision was still blurry with them, heart still pounding in suspended fear even as he clung to the lifeline Gerry had offered.

“You don’t need someone to have one of your tokens to find them, you just need to look. Actively, not the passive awareness or whatever it is the tokens give you.”

“You think I haven’t tried? I can’t  _ see  _ him, Gerry.” Every iota of attention he could spare was bent toward the border of the Serene Empire, searching desperately for that familiar presence. 

“Okay, what about the people he was with? Georgie passed him off to the Raverran guard yesterday afternoon, right?”

“Oh.” Jon hadn’t thought of that. Jon was, and he would freely admit this, panicking. His eyes flicked closed, broadening the span of his search over the border. It was easy enough to scan down the main road, find the parked carriage. Easy enough to look to the trees, find the battle. Easy enough to spot how his fellow Witch Lords’ troops were retreating, now they had what they were after. He watched the Raverran Falcon and her Falconer reach the horses, cut them free. Watched them call into the trees for the one they were missing, saw the look they exchanged. Watched them urge the horses into motion, speeding back toward the road and off, on their way to the city, leaving the twisted bodies of their fallen fellows behind. There was fog hanging in the trees as they passed, thick and heavy and familiar.

Jon opened his eyes, ran his tongue across his lips. His mouth was dry. “Lukas has him,” he said, and Gerry inhaled sharply. “He’s been kidnapped.”

~~~~~

Martin reappeared in Jon’s awareness at approximately lunchtime the next day. Another teacup was sacrificed to the shock, and he breathed a sigh of relief to find him alive and well - albeit a prisoner, deep in the heart of the Lady of Masks’ castle.

Georgie arrived back that evening, having left her soldiers to follow behind as she raced home at Jon’s request. She collapsed into a chair in Jon’s office the second she got in, dropping her helmet on his desk and pushing sweaty hair back from her face.

“You have  _ got _ to be kidding me. He’s out of my sight  _ less than a day,  _ and he gets himself  _ kidnapped?” _

“It’s not  _ his  _ fault,” Jon snapped. Gerry stood from his chair, crossed behind the desk to stand next to him, and quite calmly covered his mouth with one hand. He gave Georgie a winning smile.

“Do forgive our dear Lord Sims, he’s been a right mess since yesterday and seems to have misplaced many of his social graces.”

Georgie snorted. “No offence taken, he’s been a right mess since Martin showed up.” 

Jon glared at her, unable to defend himself past Gerry’s hand. Not that he really  _ could  _ defend himself, against that claim. Martin had turned his life upside down in the best way possible, and he would never be the same again. He didn’t want to be.

“So, I’m assuming you have some sort of plan? I can call in the army, but it’ll take a while to get them all to the border.”

Gerry dropped his hand, slouching back to his chair with a yawn. Jon felt a brief stab of guilt - he’d kept him up half the night worrying about Martin. 

“I’m not calling in the army. If Orsinov has advance warning that I’m planning to rescue him, there’s no telling what she might do.”

“You can’t honestly be planning on charging in there alone.”

Jon clenched his teeth, feeling a muscle in his jaw twitch. Gerry laughed. 

“Oh, but of course he is! How much more romantic can you get than a suicide mission to rescue your one true love?”

“It’s not-” Jon cut himself off with a frustrated sigh. “Look, I’ve been watching the developments on the Raverran side, okay? The artificer that escaped the attack got a message back to the Falcons, and they’re mobilizing against Orsinov already. I don’t even think they’ve got Lord Dekker’s permission, but they’re being led by Colonel Stoker - Martin’s friend Tim. It  _ won’t  _ be a suicide mission. They’ve got a fire warlock, they can take down Orsinov  _ without _ my help. But they don’t know Martin’s alive. They’ll burn the place down with him inside.” He sat back, running a weary hand through his hair. “And even if they did know, they wouldn’t be able to get him out of there safely. The Raverrans can have their fun taking down the other Witch Lords; I  _ need  _ to be there to make sure Martin’s okay.”

Georgie had watched this whole rant with one eyebrow raised; now she spoke in a considering tone. “And here I was expecting you to deny the ‘one true love’ bit.”

Jon lowered his head. His throat was tight. “You  _ know _ how I feel about him.”

“Jon…” Gerry’s voice was soft. “What happened, between you two?”

“I… I misinterpreted his intentions. He corrected me. It was-” he took a deep breath. “It was very civil.”

“Ouch.”

“That  _ doesn’t matter.”  _ Jon leaned forward again. “Orsinov doesn’t know that the Raverrans have a fire warlock. She’s going to over-commit to the attack, leave herself in a vulnerable position. I can get into the castle, get to Martin, and get him  _ out of there.  _ I’ve got… plans, in place, we can take down Prentiss at the same time. We can  _ end this thing.” _

“And if you’re wrong?” He refocused on Georgie as she spoke. “If you get hurt? Killed? You don’t have an heir, Jon. I’m not mage marked, and you  _ know  _ Gerry doesn’t want to take over. If you die, Elias is going to be in here like a  _ shot,  _ and then  _ everything  _ goes to hell.”

“I know,” Jon said, and his voice was low and rough. “But it's a risk I have to take. I can't abandon Martin. I need-” his breath hitched. “I need him to be okay. I just  _ do.” _

Georgie and Gerry exchanged a glance. She raised her eyebrows; he rolled his eyes.

“Fine.” Georgie turned back to Jon. “When do we leave?”

He blinked. “What?”

“We’re not letting you do this alone, Jon.” Gerry stretched, various joints popping with the movement. “If you’re going to be a fool for love, we’re coming with you.”

“W- no! No, you can’t, I’m not going to put you in  _ danger-” _

“Oh, shut up.” Georgie stood, grabbing her helmet back from the table. “You don’t get a say in this. Besides, I’d quite like the chance to punch Lukas in the face. Creepy old bastard.”

“And it’s probably past time I faced my mother.”

“But…” Jon looked at them, strong and brave and willing to throw themselves headlong into danger for his sake. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve friends like this; he was quite sure he’d never find the words to tell them how much it meant to him. “...Thank you.”

“Sure thing.” Georgie smiled, turning for the door. “Now I’m going to go have a bath and sleep for ten hours straight. I recommend you get some rest as well. We’ll plan in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Jon.” Gerry patted him on the shoulder as he left.

Jon sank back in his chair when they were gone. He probably  _ should  _ get some rest. He needed to be strong if he was going to be charging right into the heart of the Lady of Masks’ domain.

He closed his eyes, sending his thoughts winging westward. The token he had given Martin drew his gaze in easily; a little more focus and he could separate it from the warm glow of Martin himself, could  _ see  _ Martin curled in the corner of a cold stone cell, knees pulled under his chin and tear tracks down his face. His heart lurched in his chest, and his breath caught. His gaze was muddied with the distance and interference from Orsinov’s power; even so, he could feel Martin’s fear and loneliness leaching out into the world around him.

_ Martin. _ It was a strain; his telepathy was weakened by distance, and Martin was very, very far away.  _ Martin! _

He didn’t react. Still, Jon focused, putting everything he could into the thought.  _ Martin, don’t worry. You’re not alone. I’m coming for you. _

It wasn’t getting through. Jon released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, opening his eyes again.

Perhaps he  _ was  _ being foolish, putting everything on the line for a man he’d only met a few months ago. But he  _ loved  _ Martin. Loved him so deeply that the very thought of him in danger was a physical pain in his chest; so  _ completely  _ that he would risk it all, gladly, to save him, even if his love was not returned.

Besides, even if Martin didn’t love him back, they were still friends. He’d do the same for Georgie or Gerry.

Admittedly he’d complain about it more, if it were them.

He didn’t get any sleep that night, staring out a dark window with his thoughts reaching to every corner of his domain, calling his forces to him.

~~~~~

When Colonel Timothy Stoker crested the last ridge between the Serene Empire and the Vaskandran wilderness, the massed might of the Falcons at his back, he was met with a strange sight. Standing just inside the forest, dappled with shadows from the trees around them, were three figures. The tall man on the left wore a long black coat; his face was pale and gaunt. The woman on the right had a mass of curly hair pulled back in a ponytail; her armour shone blindingly bright where the sun hit it. The man in the middle was draped in a long green cloak, with the hood pulled up over his face. The branches above them rustled and sighed with life, small flashes of feathers darting in and out of view.

Tim raised a closed fist, halting the group behind him, and stepped forward cautiously. 

“Who goes there? I warn you, we are armed and ready to defend ourselves against any threat.”

The man in the middle moved forward, pushing his hood back as he stepped from beneath the shadow of the trees, and smiled.

“Jonathan Sims, at your service. I thought you might want some reinforcements.”


	21. Kidnapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh… this one kind of got away from me. It’s about 6,500 words, or in other words more than twice as long as a normal chapter of this story. Just figured I’d give a forewarning, because it’s going to take a lot longer to read.

Martin woke with a start, lurching halfway to his feet before remembering there was nowhere for him to go. He sank back down to the cold stones, breathing heavily. 

He had felt- he had been  _ sure- _ but it was only a dream.

He tipped his head back to rest against the wall, stretching his legs out flat in front of him to try and work out some of the cramps. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been here - both sleep and meals came at irregular intervals that were no help  _ at all  _ in figuring out how much time had passed - but however long it had been was already enough to leave him permanently sore from a combination of the temperature, the stone, and the omnipresent damp.

His eyes drifted shut, trying to recapture his dream. It wasn’t a particularly clear one: just warmth, and comfort, and Jon’s voice, calling to him. It had been a recurring theme in his sleep since he had been kidnapped. The first time, he’d almost been convinced it really was Jon, trying to reach him- but he knew what  _ that  _ felt like, clear and sharp thoughts appearing in his mind. This was muffled, muted; a memory of the sensation dragged up by his own tired consciousness.

Martin sighed. He’d take what he could get, honestly, however false it was. At least it served to add some variety to the endless hours. He wouldn’t have thought  _ boredom  _ would be a big problem for a prisoner, but now that he was here…

It wouldn’t be so bad if he had been kidnapped for a  _ sensible  _ reason, he reflected. At least then he could- he didn’t even know. Reason with his captors, maybe, talk them into letting him go. Or at least plan out arguments in his head, even if he never got to deliver them. But no. No, his capture had nothing to do with sense at all.

~~~~~

He had come back to consciousness in a large stone chamber, vaulted ceiling stretching high overhead and fog swirling along the ground. There was no one with him, at first. Based on Jon’s descriptions, he’d worked out pretty quickly that he was under Lord Lukas’s power. He’d originally assumed he was actually in the Lord of Solitude’s  _ domain,  _ as well - but when the fog finally bled away from around his feet he had found himself face-to-face with Lady Orsinov. It was… not a pleasant experience.

“Welcome!” she had trilled, doing a little spin. “Did you have a nice trip?”

Martin had blinked at her in consternation. “I was unconscious.”

“Oh, of course!” She had pressed a single finger to the place where her lips should have been. “That  _ does  _ rather put a damper on sightseeing, doesn’t it?”

“Why am I here?” Looking back, Martin wasn’t sure what had made him so forthright in his questions. He certainly hadn’t been feeling  _ brave.  _ But there was something  _ off  _ about Orsinov, something strange and disconcerting about talking to a blank and immobile face with such an expressive voice behind it. Besides, that close it had been hard to hold on to the idea that she was constantly wearing a mask over her face, and terrifyingly easy to realize that the mask  _ was  _ her face. It kind of distracted the mind from thoughts of politeness or tact.

“Why, because of the war, of course!” Orsinov had spread her hands, delivering the words with all the showmanship of an actor. “You’re going to start it for us!”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, obviously not  _ you,  _ personally.” Her head had tilted, much too far for an ordinary neck. “But by being here. It’s our first move! Now the Raverrans have no  _ choice  _ but to attack us back!”

Martin had taken a moment to process that. Then: “So you’ve told them you captured me, and you’re- what? Hoping they get angry enough to attack you before they’re ready?”

“No no no!” Her voice had been high and shocked. “We didn’t  _ tell _ them! But your little escort certainly  _ will  _ when they get back to the city with the news.”

That had been the only good news to come out of the conversation: Daisy and Basira had survived. The rest of it had been… well. Nonsense. Orsinov was convinced that kidnapping a representative of Raverra was more than aggressive enough to start a war - it had happened so many times in the past, after all! - and that the doge would commit the army to the conflict without adequate preparation, leaving the Serene Empire weakened and open to attack. It was in vain that Martin had tried to explain to her that it wouldn’t work - that her strategy was only effective if the doge actually cared about the fate of his representative, and that Martin had never been expected to survive the trip to Vaskandar in the first place. He’d fulfilled his duty: the Raverrans knew they could take down the Lady of Masks, as long as they got Melanie close enough. After that… well. The safety of the Empire came before revenge for a single man.

Orsinov wouldn’t hear a word of it. And besides, she had said, even if  _ he  _ wasn’t enough to tip the scales, there would be plenty of time to kill more people along the borders and prod the Raverrans into action later. This was one plan among many - it wasn’t like there was a  _ limit _ on how much destruction she was willing to cause! Just as long as the Raverrans attacked first, and she could fight them on her own turf, on her own terms.

Martin had listened with a sinking feeling, fear for his own life gradually being swept away in a tide of terror for his country.

After a while Orsinov had grown bored talking to him.

“Now,” she had said,  _ “Much  _ though I would love to bring you into my army right away, I  _ did  _ make a promise that I wouldn’t touch you.” Martin had shuddered at the thought of joining the ranks of the skin-stealing soldiers that had attacked in the wood. “So I’ll let  _ him  _ deal with you from here!”

And she had left the room without glancing back. Martin had waited a few moments, tense, for someone else to take her place; then taken advantage of the stillness to hurry over to one of the small leaded windows that lined the walls.

The window opened onto a wide view of the land around the castle. It was tightly encircled by the forest: trees pressed close to the walls and their branches stretched in an unbroken canopy, rising with the hills into the distance. It would have been easy to hide in those trees, to duck and weave and run and  _ get away… _ if the window had not been a good two stories over the tops of the trees. Martin had leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the glass to try and see if there were handholds on the stone wall he could use to climb down.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

The voice had come from behind him. Martin had jumped, spinning around to find himself confronted by a tall, older gentleman in a finely tailored suit. The man had smiled. 

“Old glass, old lead. Might give out if you put too much pressure on it.”

Martin had stared at him. The man hadn’t seemed overtly threatening; his warning had sounded sincere, and he stood quietly with his hands in his pockets. Even so...

The man's eyes had been ringed with the same silver gleam of a mage mark as Jon's were, but his had a harder edge. Martin had known, with chilling certainty, that this man didn't watch the world because it was interesting, or because he wanted to learn how he could help. No, his gaze was all about knowing, calm and cold, how to use people. How to twist situations to his own advantage. In his eyes, Martin had seen the cold weight of all the evil he had expected from Jon, back when they first met. A shiver had crept up his spine.

“Who are you?”

“Oh, do forgive me. I assumed Nikola had given me an introduction. My name is Elias Bouchard.”

_ Oh.  _ That alone had been enough to explain the malevolence Martin had felt radiating off of him. He had kicked himself for not guessing.

“And what do you want with me,” Martin had tripped over the title - was he a Lord because he had married a Witch Lord, or a Mr. because he did not hold a title of his own? A Sir? “...Elias?”

“Well Martin, that  _ is  _ the question, isn’t it?” Elias had begun pacing, clasping his hands together behind his back. “For the most part, I want what we all want: a war, to seize land from Raverra and expand the domain of the Witch Lords - though unlike the others in this conflict, I intend to create an entirely  _ new  _ domain, not simply stretch one that is already extant. My own lands were stolen from me. I do not intend to resign myself to a mortal life because of this.”

Martin had scoffed, drawing a raised eyebrow from Elias, and… yeah, mocking the guy holding him prisoner certainly hadn’t been his  _ best  _ decision ever, but come  _ on. _ “Those lands weren’t  _ yours.  _ Lady Robinson held the claim for  _ hundreds  _ of years, and she chose her own successor. What  _ possible  _ claim could you make to them?”

“What claim indeed?” Cold anger had underlain his voice. “I am the direct descendant of Jonah Magnus  _ himself.  _ Gertrude may have blooded the claim, but  _ my  _ blood created it. It is my family’s birthright and destiny to rule those lands, no matter how many  _ interlopers  _ try to take their share in the meantime.”

“So, your great-great-great- _ whatever  _ grandfather took over a patch of land and that gives  _ you _ the right to rule it? You, and you alone? The guy must have  _ hundreds  _ of descendants at this point. You don’t even have the same last name!”

“It’s on my mother’s side of the family!” Elias had snapped, then closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to calm himself after losing his composure. “And besides, it hardly matters to  _ you,  _ where you’re going.”

“And where is that?”

“To the dungeons, to rot for all eternity, if I have any say in it. Nikola and Jane wanted to kill you immediately, but the rest of us were able to talk them around. I find it’s so much crueler, making people watch their world crumble and not be able to do a thing about it.”

There had been a vicious pleasure in his voice at the words. Martin had had to force himself not to back away.

“Why? Surely you must see that this isn’t going to force a war. You don’t honestly believe Lady Orsinov that this will be the tipping point in starting the conflict.”

“No.” Elias’s voice had been dismissive. “But it passes the time.”

That casual attitude toward suffering had been what finally pushed Martin over the edge. He stood up straighter, clenching his hands into fists. "You might want to think twice about this." His voice had barely shaken at all as he said it, all the false bravado that he had learned through years at the Raverran court rising up within him to keep him steady. "I'm under the protection of the Eye Lord." And he had held out the stone Jon had given him, tilting it to let the torchlight glint off the silver carving. 

A moment of silence. Then Elias had laughed, a soft and mocking sound. "You really think  _ Jon _ will be able to save you?" He had walked forward a few steps, sneering. "That little upstart has no  _ idea  _ of the kind of power he is facing."

He had lifted a hand, preparing to contemptuously swat the stone out of Martin's hand. Acting on instinct, Martin had clenched his fist around it, raised his hand... and backhanded Elias across the jaw, breaking his lip and sending him stumbling backwards. 

"Yeah," he had said, returning the stone to his pocket, "real powerful." Elias had spat blood at his feet, glaring at him.

"Impressive, little diplomat." The words had come from the shadows at the edge of the room; Martin had seen, through a rising fog, the Lord of Solitude step out of those shadows and advance toward Elias, resting a possessive hand on his shoulder. His voice had lost the cheerful edge it had held during the meeting at the Magnus Estate. Now it was low, rasping; dangerous. "But you forget that Elias here is under  _ my  _ protection."

The fog had swirled around Martin's feet, rising unnaturally fast to envelop him and conceal the rest of the room. He’d taken a few quick steps backward to try to get out of it, but it had been everywhere, cold and pervasive: on his skin, soaking his clothes, invading his lungs. He’d coughed, trying to breathe, trying to see, trying to  _ get out- _ but darkness had already been creeping in at the edges of his vision, and Martin had felt himself falling to the floor as his legs gave way beneath him. He had been unconscious before he hit the tiles.

~~~~~

And now he was here. And here he had been for far too long.

Martin crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his hands under his armpits for warmth.  _ Here _ was a small stone cell, barely long enough to lie down flat in, with iron bars replacing one of the walls. There were no windows; a flickering torch in the passageway outside let in faint light. Water dripped down the walls constantly, and he was under permanent guard.

He wasn’t sure if the guard had ever changed while he was asleep; he didn’t think so. The figure outside the bars swayed gently where it stood, never speaking, never turning to look at him. The only times he had seen it move were when it stepped aside to let a different guard pass a tray of food through the bars of the door. It might, possibly, be able to pass for a human - at a distance, on a dark night. Standing a few feet away, bathed in the glow of the torch, all Martin could say for it was that it had probably  _ once _ been human. It certainly wasn’t anymore.

In short: it was miserable.

Martin pulled his knees to his chest again, trying to make himself as small as possible. Not that it was more  _ comfortable,  _ per say. But it had always been his go-to response when he was scared or upset.

He was going to die here. He knew this, even if he didn’t know how it was going to happen. They would grow bored of keeping him here and it would end quickly, or they’d forget to feed him and he’d starve, or he’d get ill from the damp and waste away, or they’d keep him alive for years and years and he’d die of old age, never having seen the sun again. Or, worse thought, he  _ wouldn’t  _ die here because he’d be conscripted into Orsinov’s stolen army, and be sent off to fight against his own friends on the battlefield.

Either way, he’d never see the people he loved again. Tim, Sasha, Melanie… they already thought he was dead, Daisy and Basira’s report of the attack would see to that. Georgie and Gerry… well, they probably thought he was safely on his way to Raverra. By the time they learned differently it would already be too late. Jon...

It all seemed so _ simple,  _ from the bowels of a dungeon. All his quibblings about duty and responsibility bled away, leaving him with one simple fact: he loved Jon. He was  _ in love  _ with Jon, didn’t just love him as a friend. And he could have stayed with him, if only he’d had the courage to admit it to himself when he still had time.

He should have just kissed him when he had the chance. They could have gone back to the border together, passed on the information about the relative destructive power of fire warlocks when opposed to Witch Lords, and gone home. It would have been simple. It would have been easy. He was almost positive it was what Jon wanted. 

They could have been together.

Martin pulled the carved stone from his pocket, running his finger over the familiar grooves of the eye. Not for the first time, he wondered if Jon would be able to find him here. He knew the various Witch Lords’ powers stood in opposition to each other: Jon had told him he couldn’t see very clearly when looking in the others’ domains. It probably wouldn’t be enough to block out his awareness of the token, though.

Was he even looking? Martin hadn’t exactly left him with much hope. He wouldn’t blame Jon for not even wanting to think about him right now.

And even if he  _ was  _ looking, if he  _ did  _ see Martin… what then? Sure, Jon liked him. They were friends. Jon even returned his more romantic feelings. But…

But Jon was neutral. Famous for it. It was one thing to help Martin research how to take Orsinov down, to talk about winning the war and strategize and form plots with the Lord and Lady of Doors and Mazes. It was quite another to move against one of his fellows unprovoked, toss his hat in the ring on the Raverran side of the conflict, and ruin the years of careful political maneuvering it had taken to get him into the position he was in today. And all for Martin’s sake?

No. He didn’t expect Jon to do anything to save him, and he didn’t begrudge him the inaction. Martin simply wasn’t worth it.

He was shaken from these thoughts by a rumbling boom echoing down through the castle. The walls shook, sending a small shower of loose stones pattering down on Martin’s head. Here was a fate he hadn’t considered: crushed to death by the ceiling caving in. At least it would be quick.

He scrambled to his feet, tucking the token back into his pocket for safety. Outside the bars, the guard lurched to attention, drawing the small sword that hung from its belt. A distant scream drifted from above.

What in the hells was going on?

More explosions shook the foundations. There seemed to be two possible explanations for them: firstly, that the Witch Lords had turned against each other and the alliance had finally collapsed; secondly, that the doge actually  _ had  _ decided to retaliate against the attack on his ambassador, and the Raverran army was at the door doing their best to demolish the place. Neither boded well for Martin’s fate.

An unholy screech echoed down the passageway, reverberating and growing louder as it bounced off the stone walls. Martin clapped his hands over his ears with a cry. Dark shapes pelted the guard, filling the air as they rushed in from the direction of the stairs. Several swooped in through the bars of Martin’s cell, darting and weaving around him in a dizzying rush. He backed into the wall, covering his head with his arms in an attempt at protection. Talons tore into the guard; shreds of fabric and flesh fell to the ground, and Martin could see the bright flash of the torchlight catching on its sword as it flailed wildly at its attackers to no avail.

A wing brushed against Martin’s side, and he flinched at the close pass of the bird. The guard was losing the fight - it sagged to the ground, nearly hidden under a cloud of vicious feathers. Soon enough its struggles stopped. The birds began to land, perching on the bars of Martin’s cell, covering the body of the guard; he bit back a whimper as a heavy weight landed on his shoulder, sharp grip digging through his jacket. And then-

A familiar warmth swept through Martin. It was the feeling of being seen, of being known. Of being found, after so long spent lost. It was power, pure and unfiltered.

In the passageway outside, a figure stepped into view. His eyes were cold and hard; his cloak swirled around his feet, billowing in the wind of the owls’ wings. He was staring at the remains of the guard, expression locked in contemptuous dismissal.

“J- Jon?”

Jon’s eyes widened. He spun, lurching forward to grab the bars of the cell.

“Martin! Are you okay?”

Martin gaped at him for a moment, slightly stunned. Jon’s whole demeanor had shifted in an instant. Whatever dramatic posturing and power he had maintained for the attack was gone; now his face was open and vulnerable, his eyes flitting in worried scrutiny over Martin as he searched for injuries. Had all of that really been for  _ him? _

“I- I think so?” he stuttered. 

Jon stared at him for a second longer before pulling his eyes away to search the floor. He bent down to the remains of the guard, removing the key from its belt. His fingers appeared to be shaking; he almost dropped the key twice before fitting it in the lock and yanking the door open. 

Martin took a step forward, expecting Jon to move out of the way to let him past. Instead, he found himself pulled into a fierce hug. Jon’s arms were tight around him; Martin could feel him trembling, unstable breaths huffing against his neck where Jon had pressed his face into Martin’s shoulder.

Before Martin had a chance to return the hug he was pulling away. Jon cleared his throat, glancing to the side to avoid Martin’s eyes. His voice was still raw with emotion when he spoke.

“I’m, uh… I’m glad to find you alive. We should probably leave before that changes.”

Martin reached out a hand to him. “Jon, I…” Another explosion overhead; they ducked, in unison, as flakes of rock rained down. “...You’re right. Let’s go.”

They ran. Jon was in the lead; when they reached the top of the stairs out of the dungeon he reached back to grab Martin’s hand, tugging him along the left-hand passageway. He slackened his grip as soon as they were around the corner, giving Martin the option of pulling away. He tightened his own grip to compensate.

It was dark, and loud, and confusing, and there were screams and explosions coming in from outside, and Martin knew with certainty that if Jon had not been there he would have been instantly lost in the depths of that castle. But Jon  _ was  _ here, and Martin could feel that unique watchfulness in the air that meant he was applying his powers to the task of finding the way. 

Soon enough they were approaching an old wooden door. Jon slammed his shoulder against it without hesitation, sending it flying open as they spilled through it into the moonlit night. Owls flew through after them, looping around them and swooping off into the dark sky. They were on a small strip of grass that circled this section of the castle. The forest loomed no more than ten feet ahead; Martin could hear the sounds of battle from under the trees, but where they stood it was quiet. He pulled Jon to a halt.

“St- stop I need to- breathe-”

Jon stopped. Martin bent forward, dropping Jon’s hand so he could brace himself against his knees and take several long, deep breaths. Jon stayed near him, keeping a watchful eye on the forest.

After a few moments Martin was able to stand up straight again. He coughed.

“H- how are you not out of breath right now?”

Jon blinked at him, taking a deep breath. “I am.” He took another breath. “I’m just-” and another, “handling it better.”

Martin stared at him for a moment, one eyebrow creeping slowly up his face. “...You’re weird.”

“Perhaps.” Jon seemed on the verge of saying something more, but he froze. Then he spun toward the forest, putting himself between it and Martin. “Something’s coming!”

Branches cracked under the trees as whatever it was drew near. Martin squinted, trying to see. He caught a brief impression of long limbs, jerky movement, something large approaching- then it left the trees, and the moonlight illuminated it for what it really was.

“Sasha!” Martin stepped forward.

She froze for a second, head tilted to the side, and then turned with a wide smile. “Martin! You are okay!”

“Yes, I- I’m good, Jon got me out, wh- what are you  _ doing  _ here? Is anyone else-”

Jon put a hand on his shoulder, smiling. “The entirety of the Falcons, or at least all of them that Colonel Stoker could rouse to action on short notice. You worried a lot of people, disappearing like that.” He turned to Sasha. “It’s good to see you, Captain, but… where is Ms. King?”

“Melanie is waiting for us in the forest.” Sasha held out a hand. “Come with me. She will be happy to see you.”

“You ready to go home?” Jon turned to Martin with a small smile. Martin reached out, grabbing his hand.

“Yeah.”

_ “Martin?”  _ The voice was accompanied by Melanie, soot-stained but jogging around the corner of the castle with a grin. “What the hells man, I thought you were dead!”

“I told you he wasn’t!” Jon’s voice was peeved. Melanie flapped a hand at him.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You also talk to birds.” Then she frowned, pointing at Sasha. “Who’s that?”

“It’s… Sasha?” Martin frowned at her. “We were just about to go look for you, in the woods.”

“That’s not Sasha.” Melanie’s voice was laced with sudden fear. “Get away from it.”

“What do you mean? Of course I am Sasha.” Sasha laughed. “Do not joke around like that, Melanie, it is not funny.”

“I just left Sasha at the castle gates with the alchemists, Martin,  _ get away from it.” _

“Melanie,” he chuckled, nervous. “Of  _ course  _ it’s Sasha, and she’s right, you know. This isn’t funny.”

“If that’s Sasha, she can stop me burning her!” Melanie took a sudden step forward; Jon let out a cry, grabbing Martin’s arm and dragging him back.

Martin barely had time to shout “Melanie,  _ no!”  _ before she raised her arms, and the brilliant blue of balefire rose around Sasha. She screamed, and screamed, until suddenly - there was still screaming, only now it came from a contorted figure, limbs too long and joints all wrong, and the scream rose in pitch, higher and higher, until it passed out of the range of hearing and there was only the crackle of the flames. 

Melanie let her arms drop, and the fire went out. Where Sasha had stood was now just a small pile of ash. 

“See?” She wiped her arm across her face, leaving an ashy streak through the sweat beading on her brow. “I told you that wasn't her.”

“What wasn't who?”

Martin spun around in shock, dragging Jon with him. “Sasha!”

“The one and only.” Sasha approached from behind Melanie, nodding in approval at the burned patch of ground. “Good to see you alive and well, Martin.”

“You too.”

She gave him a quizzical look, but he just shook his head. “I'll explain later.”

Sasha nodded again. “You two should probably get out of here. Get Tim to pull the troops out too. Once everyone's out of danger we can really get to work on this place.” She looked at Melanie. “You ready?”

Melanie grinned, rubbing her hands together in anticipation. “What do  _ you _ think?”

“We’ll see you later.” Jon tugged at Martin’s arm. Martin glanced at him, then quickly pulled his arm away.

“One minute.” He ran over to where Sasha and Melanie stood and wrapped his arms around them, pulling them both into a hug. “Stay safe.”

“You too,” Sasha murmured, and Melanie snorted.

“I’m not exactly an easy target. Now go.” She pushed him back toward Jon. “We’ll see you later.”

Martin walked back to where Jon stood, grabbing his hand again as soon as he was close enough. He didn’t think he was imagining the way Jon’s shoulders relaxed at the contact.

They set off into the forest. It was dark under the trees; they stuck close to each other, moving slowly to avoid tripping over the large roots that covered the ground.

“Any idea where Tim is?” Martin whispered.

Jon leaned closer, keeping his voice low. “Follow m-” another of the intermittent explosions drowned out the rest of his sentence. Martin got the gist of it anyway.

“Lead the way. I’m assuming all the noise is the alchemists?”

“Yes.” Jon paused for a minute, then directed their trajectory a bit to the right. “I think they’re enjoying the opportunity to practice the more destructive side of their powers.”

The ground sloped up as they walked, gradually taking them away from the noise of the explosions below. Up here, the combat was hand-to-hand: they had to duck behind several trees to avoid lurching corpses and skittering monsters from Lady Orsinov’s army. 

Jon filled Martin in on the state of the attack as they went. The woods, as he could see, contained Lady Keay and Lady Orsinov’s soldiers, which were being held off mostly by the various artificers and Falconers of Tim’s army. The ground in front of the castle had been treacherous with Prentiss’s worms, but by this point they were mostly taken care of via the explosive force of the alchemists. No one was sure where Lord Lukas was, as he had yet to make an appearance. Sasha and Melanie had stuck with the alchemists, while Tim had stayed in the woods with Daisy, Basira, and the other artificers. Georgie and Gerry had their own plans; all Jon knew at the moment was that they had disappeared through one of Michael and Helen’s doors, and were intermittently popping up at various locations around the battlefield.

Martin listened with wide eyes, more than a little in awe of the amount of force his friends had set into motion to rescue him.

They found Tim in a small clearing, standing over a corpse. He had a sword in one hand, held in a loose grip, and his other hand was clenched in a fist. Blood stained his shirt. He smiled grimly when he saw them.

“Martin. Good to see the Witch Lord followed through on his promise.”

Martin winced. Tim didn’t seem particularly thrilled to see Jon. From the look Jon gave him in return, he guessed the feeling was mutual. So much for them getting along.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Are you?”

“Yeah.” He touched his bloody shirt gingerly. “Not mine. Hers.” And he nodded at the figure on the ground.

Martin took a closer look, grimacing. Several limbs were missing from the corpse, and blood was splattered over the nearby trees. It was not a pretty sight. Then he saw her face.

"Tim! Is- is that-"

"Sarah?” The Falconer had been one of those lost over the border when trying to rescue the kidnap victims, all those years ago. “Not anymore."

"I-"

"I  _ watched _ her die, Martin.” His voice was cold. “Ripped apart by the same thing that-" he cut himself off, fists clenching in a way that Martin knew well. He knew what Tim was going to say, anyway.  _ Ripped apart by the same thing that killed my brother.  _

He cleared his throat. "So is that...?"

"It? Yeah." Tim kicked at the remains, grinning viciously. "Got my revenge at last."

"That's great, Tim." Martin felt a bit queasy from the gore. Jon squeezed his hand in sympathy. "But look, we need to get out of here, you've got to call a retreat."

"What?" Tim snapped out of his thoughts, urgency entering his voice. "Why? Has something gone wrong?"

"No. Something's gone Melanie."

Tim’s eyes widened, and he nodded. "Right. You two should go; I'll alert the troops."

"Should I…" Jon waved a hand vaguely at his own head.

"No." Tim was already hurrying away. "No offence, Eye Boy, and useful though your mental mail is, my troops only listen to _ me." _

Then he was gone, leaving Jon and Martin standing alone in the semi-dark with nothing but a corpse for company. Martin could see the confused look on Jon's face, and his mouth moving as he silently repeated the words  _ Eye Boy? _ Martin laughed, tugging at his hand. 

"Come on, we need to go."

~~~~~

In the valley below them, the castle burned.

Blue flames licked over the stonework, climbing silently higher as they watched. Somewhere down there Melanie stood, directing the blaze, keeping it controlled. From the hilltop, it looked wild, untethered: a fire fit to burn the world.

Martin sighed, leaning against Jon’s arm. His legs felt weak. “Do you think it’ll be enough?”

Jon wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer. His voice was soft. “Look at the trees, Martin.” Leaves were shriveling on their branches, curling and cracking and tumbling down to the forest floor as the life was drained out of them. “It’ll be enough.”

“Good.” He tried to work up some vindictive joy at watching the land burn, knowing a monster was dying with it, but… all he felt was tired.

“Come on.” Jon squeezed his shoulder. “The rendezvous isn’t far away. We should join the Raverran army.”

“Okay.” Martin didn’t move. The night was turning cold, and Jon was so warm next to him. “Jon?”

“Yes, Martin?”

“Thank you.” Martin turned under Jon’s arm, letting the support turn into a hug as he lifted his own arms to embrace the Witch Lord. “For rescuing me. I didn’t- I assumed no one was coming for me.”

Jon’s breath stuttered as Martin’s arms wrapped around him. “O-of, of course, Martin. I couldn’t just  _ leave  _ you here. I-” His head dipped, resting against Martin’s shoulder. “I couldn’t.”

Martin closed his eyes, letting himself relax into the feeling of having Jon in his arms, of being in  _ Jon’s  _ arms, for one brief moment. Then he took a deep breath and stepped back, letting the chill night air flood the space between them. Jon looked almost bereft for an instant, expression lost and dismayed, before it smoothed back into neutrality. That, more than anything, gave Martin the courage to voice the question that had been at the forefront of his mind since Jon had appeared in the dungeon like an avenging angel.

“Why?”

Jon frowned. “Why what?”

“Why… this?” Martin lifted a hand, gesturing at the burning castle and falling leaves. “Why attack another Witch Lord? Why ruin your neutrality, why side with the Serene Empire? Why make so many enemies at once? All because I… why?”  _ Why do you think I’m worth it? _

Something in Jon’s face crumpled, all his careful walls giving way to a look of such softness and vulnerability that it took Martin’s breath away.

“Oh, Martin…” Jon took a step forward, resting his hands on Martin’s shoulders as he shook his head. “Do you truly not know?”

And then-

It wasn’t like the stories had said it would be. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t drive him instantly mad.

Instead, Martin found himself filled with a slow and careful warmth as Jon poured memories into his head, a gentle, rising tide of feelings and images flickering through his mind. And what he saw was- himself. Martin Blackwood, smiling, frowning, laughing, glaring, nose buried in a book, eyes intently focused on whatever Jon was showing him, teasing, fearful, sleepy, distracted, insulting, praising, blushing, making tea,  _ leaving- _

Warm, present,  _ here, now, safe, stay with me. _

Through it all the feelings flowed, joy and sadness, relief and fear, everything in between: a world of emotions all centered on Martin himself, his presence and absence, his acceptance or dismissal. It was- too much, too fast, to process, and as it sleeted through his mind Martin could not grasp hold of individual fragments. All he could see, all he could  _ know,  _ was what it added up to.

Love.

Jon loved him.

Jon loved him more fiercely than anything in the world, loved him enough that he would gladly take on all thirteen of the other Witch Lords and the Serene Empire besides if it meant Martin was safe. Loved him for his weakness, loved him for his strength, loved him for all his perfections and flaws. Loved him.

Jon’s lips were soft against Martin’s, and he didn’t remember grabbing the Witch Lord’s collar to pull him down into the kiss but he must have done because they were kissing now. Jon gasped against Martin’s mouth, letting out a soft whimper as his hands found Martin’s waist to draw him closer.

When he finally pulled back, Jon’s eyes were closed. The firelight flickered across his face, drawing stark shadows across his profile. His lips were still parted slightly, shallow breaths hitching his shoulders even as he loosened his grip on the hem of Martin’s shirt. A few stray hairs fell across his face, and Martin didn’t resist the impulse to reach out and push them back behind his ear.

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“Martin…” It came out on a rush of breath. Jon’s eyes flickered open, silvery and serene, and for a moment he seemed utterly at peace with the world. Then confusion entered his expression. “What… why…?”

Martin shook his head. “Do you really have to ask?” He lifted a hand to cup Jon’s cheek. “I love you too, Jon.”

Jon inhaled sharply, eyes widening. “You-”

_ “Yes.”  _ Martin leaned in, kissing him again, reveling in the feel of it.

Jon’s voice, when Martin pulled away, was small. “But you left.” 

“Oh,  _ Jon.”  _ Martin pulled the Witch Lord to his chest, wrapping his arms around him again. The hurt in his voice cut like a knife. “I didn’t want to. I thought you saw.”

Jon turned his head, pressing his mouth against Martin’s temple. It wasn’t quite a kiss, but Martin felt every movement of his lips when he spoke. “I was too afraid to look.”

_ “Jon.”  _ Martin tugged him into another kiss. “Jon…” And another. “Don’t be scared.” His voice caught on the words. “Just  _ look.” _

Jon let his forehead rest against Martin’s. His eyes glimmered in the low light, steady and focused as they scanned Martin’s face - whether for reassurance or simply to commit the moment to memory, Martin couldn’t say. Then his eyes flicked up, and their gazes locked.

It was… intense. Martin had felt Jon’s power before, of course, lending weight to a question or observing from a distance. This was different. It felt like Jon was seeing into his very soul.

Martin had the vague idea that it ought to be uncomfortable, to be exposed like this: everything he was laid bare for Jon to see. Instead, he felt… warm. Safe.  _ Known,  _ but by a loving eye that wouldn’t judge him for the secrets it found. And anyway… Jon had let himself be seen first.

Martin smiled, and he knew Jon could feel the love coursing through him. It was intense, all-encompassing: down to his very bones, he loved Jon. Jon’s eyes shone as he smiled back at Martin, and as the power slowly bled from the air around them he pulled Martin back into another kiss.

They stayed there quite a while, illuminated by the fire, while around them falling leaves drifted softly to the forest floor.


	22. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you _so_ much to everyone who’s been following along! This story took over my _life_ last year when I was writing it, and it’s been a joy to share. Though the main story is done, I do have a couple of short follow-ups to post, so keep an eye out for those if you’re interested! (They’ll be linked in a series, not additional chapters, and posted on upcoming Saturdays!)

“Grace of  _ Victory,  _ that was fun!”

Melanie was laughing as she emerged from the yellow door situated incongruously between two shriveled trees. Sasha, walking by her side and supporting most of her weight, snorted.

“See how you feel about it tomorrow morning when the exhaustion  _ really  _ kicks in. You’re practically dead on your feet as it is.”

_ “Worth it.” _

Sasha dragged her off to the side, letting Georgie and Gerry come through after them. She was watching Melanie with an amused expression; his face was more sober. He held a thick, leatherbound book clutched in his hands, and Martin thought it looked strangely familiar.

“Good to see everyone made it out okay.” Tim approached, smiling. “Did you notice who’s joined us?” He tilted his head to where Martin was standing.

Georgie and Gerry grinned as soon as they saw him. Sasha and Melanie did a double take. Martin flushed.

Okay, so  _ maybe  _ they hadn’t expected him and Jon to be together. And maybe, yes, maybe he would be a little surprised too if he found one of his friends wrapped in the arms of a Witch Lord, leaning back into his embrace as said Witch Lord nuzzled the back of their neck and pressed his face into their hair. But did they have to look at him like  _ that? _

Jon tightened his arms around Martin’s chest and pressed a kiss into his hair before glancing up. He didn’t let go, or step back, and his breath was warm against Martin’s ear when he spoke. 

“I told you it wasn’t a suicide mission.” Georgie snorted, and even Gerry cracked a smile. Martin shot a confused glance at Tim, then another at Sasha, but they both just shrugged. “Be that as it may, I owe everyone here an immense debt of gratitude.” Jon’s hair brushed against Martin’s cheek as he inclined his head, managing to pull off the respectful gesture in spite of being stuck to Martin like a limpet. “If there is anything I can do to aid any of you, now or in the future, do not hesitate to ask.”

“He says, as if he wouldn’t do that anyway.” Georgie grinned, rolling her eyes, and the solemn moment was broken. Jon’s scowl was audible in his voice.

“I have a reputation to maintain, Georgina.”

“Oh, it’s  _ Georgina  _ now, is it?”

“Okay, hold on, hold on.” Martin waved his hands, cutting them off. “Fun as it is to watch you two argue, I think there are more important things to be doing?”

_ “Thank  _ you, Martin.” Tim’s expression was somewhere between amusement and frustration; it was the same look he would get when his soldiers would deliberately mess up during training to try and make each other laugh. “Now that everyone’s here, I would appreciate a report on the current state of the other Witch Lords.” He turned to Sasha and Melanie.

“Prentiss and Orsinov are dead.” Sasha stood a little straighter, tugging Melanie’s arm more securely around her shoulders. “Prentiss was the first to go. Based on Lord Sims’ recommendation, and with the help of the Lord of Mazes and the Lady of Doors, Melanie and I lured her into the corridors and Melanie burned her there. She seemed weakened in there, so whatever defenses she was using to stay alive when the alchemists were destroying her worms must have been neutralized.” She glanced at Jon. He nodded.

“It’s the same principle as Lord Lukas applied when he killed my predecessor, Lady Robinson. The corridors are cut off from the rest of the world, so Prentiss was unable to draw strength from her domain. Unlike Orsinov.”

“Right.” Sasha took up the report again. “Melanie just burned her wholesale. I must admit I assumed it was an exaggeration when Lord Sims told us what would happen to her lands, but this is…” She gestured to the forest around them, to dead and dying plantlife. “Intense.”

“She’s gone, though?” Tim’s shoulders were tense. Sasha nodded, giving him a gentle smile.

“Yes. She’s gone.”

“Good.” Tim let out a huff of breath, shoulders slumping. “Good.”

“Her soldiers died when she did.” Melanie’s voice was muffled with exhaustion, but her smile was still bright and vicious. “I felt it happen.”

“We never saw Lukas or Keay, though.”

“We did.” Georgie took over, gesturing between herself and Gerry. “Helen and Michael got us into the castle. Nearly killed Elias, but Lukas showed up and pulled him off into a fog.” She grimaced. “Those two are really creepy, you know?”

Martin wrinkled his nose. “I have some idea, yeah.”

“But are they gone, or just biding their time before attacking us again?”

“One second.” Jon held up a hand to forestall Tim’s questions. His head tilted to the side as he focused, bumping into Martin’s. A flare of power filled the air for a moment, and then was gone. “They’re on the road out of Orsinov’s lands. They appear to be arguing, but they’re leaving.”

“Good.” Georgie turned to Gerry. “We got separated. I didn’t see what happened with your- with Lady Keay.”

“She’s gone.” His voice was flat, and his eyes distant. Then he started, blinked, spoke again. “I- I mean she’s left, too. Like Lukas and Elias. I… convinced her to go.” Gerry clutched at the book in his hands as he said this. It still looked rather familiar. It looked, in fact, an awful lot like the book Lady Keay had been carrying. Martin didn't comment.

“So that’s it, then?” Tim looked over the group as each nodded in turn. “Good. In that case, I’d like to talk to some of you in private, if you don’t mind. Sasha, Melanie, Martin?” He tilted his head toward the edge of the clearing, away from the yellow door that was still sitting between the trees.

Sasha started dragging Melanie over, despite her protests that she could walk just fine on her own. Martin twisted in Jon’s arms to face him, smiling. “Back soon?”

Jon nodded, head tipping down slightly, and  _ hells  _ did Martin want to kiss him again, if only because he could, now. But there was no way he’d be able to keep it to just a quick peck, and they  _ did  _ have an audience. He stepped back, out of Jon’s arms, and tried not to miss the warmth.

Georgie and Gerry approached as he moved away, and he heard Jon whisper something to them. Martin could have sworn it was a very excited "He loves me!" 

Gerry's snort in response was much more audible, as well as Georgie's deadpan "Really? I never would have guessed."

Martin ducked his head to hide his grin, hurrying to catch up with the retreating Raverrans.

“First order of business,” Tim said, as soon as he joined the group, “you need to find Daisy and Basira and tell them  _ in person  _ that you’re okay. They’ve been on the warpath since you got kidnapped, and I’m not sure if it’s because they feel guilty or because their pride’s been hurt by getting beaten in battle, but I think seeing you alive will help.”

Martin blinked. He was glad to hear they were okay, but he certainly wouldn’t have expected  _ that.  _ “Oh- okay? I’ll go find them once we’re done here.”

“Good. Second order of business,” turning to Melanie, “are you sure you’re okay? You look like hell.”

“Ah, I’m fine.” She waved a hand vaguely. “Just a bit punchy.”

Sasha raised an eyebrow. “Punchy as in drunk or punchy as in you’re going to punch someone?”

“Both.” Melanie said it decisively. Then her eyes went wide and excited. “Hey, wait, Martin, you know the General, right? Georgie? With the smile and the hair? Is she single?”

Sasha burst out laughing.  _ “Seriously?” _

“What?” Melanie pouted. “She’s cute.”

Tim put his head in his hands. “Okay, that settles it, you are hereby excluded from any important decision making until you’ve had at least ten hours of sleep. But that does bring us up to the third order of business.” And he turned back to Martin, face going grim. “Can we trust the Vaskandrans?”

“Yes.” Martin didn’t hesitate. Tim’s expression didn’t lighten.

“Are you sure? I know they seem…  _ genuine.  _ And you  _ seem  _ like you’re okay. But if they’re- if they’re  _ blackmailing  _ you, or something, and you need us to get you out of here-”

“Tim!” Martin put as much justified horror into his voice as he could muster. “Look, I know you’ve got history with the place, and you want to just dismiss the whole North of the continent as irredeemably evil, but you’re wrong! Those people, the evil ones? You just took them  _ down. _ You  _ won.  _ The rest of them, they’re just-” an image of Lady Montauk flashed in his mind, and he quickly dismissed the idea of saying they were ‘just normal’ “-just like half the court back in Raverra. Sure, they’re  _ awful,  _ but it’s mainly just petty grudges against each other. And then there’s, you know, Jon.” He gave a small shrug, feeling a flush creep over his face.

Tim stared at him for a second longer, then glanced at Sasha. She shrugged. “I’m on Martin’s side on this one. Lord Sims seems like a perfectly lovely man, and he  _ did  _ risk everything to save Martin.”

“Fine,” Tim relented, sighing. “In that case, what in the names of all the Graces possessed you to go falling in love with a Witch Lord, mate?”

The remainder of that evening was spent huddled around a campfire, trading tales of all that had happened since they’d seen each other last. Things had been normal in Raverra for the most part, though taking the Falcons on a spontaneous trip to start a battle in Vaskandar had apparently  _ not  _ gone over well with the doge. Martin was glad to see both groups of his friends getting along well: Tim and Jon still seemed wary of each other, unfortunately, but the others more than made up for the awkwardness with swapped stories and laughter. The rest of the Raverran army had campfires spread throughout the forest, lighting up the night. 

Martin woke the next morning with his head pillowed on Jon’s chest and Jon’s cloak wrapped around them both for warmth. He didn’t stop smiling for quite a while.

~~~~~

The Lady of Doors helped ferry everyone back to the Magnus Estate over the course of that first day, in drips and drabs as the Raverran soldiers worked up the courage to brave her corridors. The Lord of Mazes was nowhere to be seen, but according to Jon he’d left in a huff after Helen agreed to stay and help. He’d been appalled by the munificence, apparently, which had only made Helen more determined to stay. Jon was holding back a grin when he related this, and actually managed to get a laugh out of Tim. He coughed quickly to try to hide it, but Martin counted it as a win.

There had been surprisingly few losses and injuries in the battle; still, the Falcons stayed at the Estate for almost a week to recover and prepare to face whatever censure was waiting for them back home. It was strange to have the place so full of life.

Martin, unfortunately, saw little of Jon over that week. He was locked in his office or setting off for meetings through the corridors, dealing with the fallout of the sudden death of two Witch Lords. When he  _ was  _ around he barely left Martin’s side, and he kept him updated on each development as it occurred.

“Prentiss’s lands have been claimed.” It was a sleepy mumble, spoken into Martin’s shoulder. They were curled side-by-side on a couch in Jon’s chambers. It was still early evening, but they’d mutually agreed they’d rather  _ not  _ join in one of the various social factions that were developing downstairs. “Some guy named Amherst, calling himself the Lord of Mold. Seems a fairly quiet sort, but we’ll have to wait and see.”

“And Orsinov’s? Any decisions there?” The inheritance on that front was rather more complicated, as there wasn’t much  _ left  _ to inherit. Melanie had left it a land of ash.

“It’s going to be left empty for now, wait till things grow back and see if someone takes the initiative. It’s looking like the claim has been erased entirely, and it’ll have to be started from the beginning again. I’m sure we’ll have someone knocking at the door looking for history books from the Archive at some point. You might be able to help.” He turned his head, pressing a soft kiss to Martin’s neck, and Martin’s eyes fluttered closed at the sensation. “You did a lot of research on the first Witch Lords, I recall.”

“Way too much.” It wasn’t just the kisses that had Martin’s heart racing; it was the casual  _ we,  _ the idea that he was going to be able to stay here with Jon. They’d talked about it, a bit, and while there were still logistical problems that needed to be solved before they announced anything to the others, both had been very firm that they did not want to be separated again. Jon had even offered to go back to Raverra with Martin if that was what was required, and Martin had kissed him hard enough to see stars. They were staying in Vaskandar, though. Martin’s title was a lot easier to pass on than Jon’s, and besides, he liked the forests.

“Lukas is still pretending he had nothing to do with what happened, even though everyone knows he’s lying. And...” Jon hesitated. “The Lord of Tombs has taken over Lady Keay’s domain again.”

“What?” Martin sat up quickly, nudging Jon off his shoulder. “I thought Lord Banks was dead?”

Jon huffed, tugging at Martin’s arm to pull him back into prime cuddling position. Martin relented, but didn’t stop frowning.

“He disappeared when she took over, no one knew if he was dead or not,” Jon said. “Gerry has declined to comment.”

“Jon… you  _ saw  _ that book he was carrying, right?”

“I did. I believe I am going to decline to comment as well.”

Martin shrugged. “Okay, then. Seems reasonable.” Jon laughed, and kissed him again.

~~~~~

Two days later, with Jon off to another meeting, Martin made the public announcement that he’d be staying in Vaskandar. He’d worked out a letter to the doge to paint the decision in a favorable political light - forming a lasting alliance with a strong foreign power, with views to closer ties in the future - and looked into the legalities of a Lord moving out of his country of birth. It was surprisingly simple: the title would remain with him, and since there weren’t any major duties or responsibilities associated with it he didn’t even need to worry about appointing someone to make decisions in his place. He could just… leave.

Gerry and Georgie were, predictably, thrilled. Tim, Sasha, and Melanie were less enthusiastic, but unsurprised.

“At least tell me you’ll be back to visit,” Tim begged, “I don’t want to have to come all the way up to these spooky forests to see you.”

“Of course I will! If nothing else I have to show Jon the city, he barely saw anything last time he was there.” Tim frowned at him.  _ “And  _ I’ll miss you, don’t give me that look.”

“Good.” Tim nodded. “And I may not like it up here, but if you don’t invite us for the wedding so help me…” He trailed off with a threatening glare, and Martin flushed.

“Tim! No one said there was going to be a… well.”

“Of course there is!” Georgie slung an arm around his shoulders. “If you two aren’t engaged by the time the year’s out then the world must have ended, ‘cause that’s the only thing I can see stopping Jon from proposing.”

“Wait, really?”

Martin was prevented from pursuing that fascinating topic by the intercession of Sasha, who was insistent that if Martin wasn’t coming back to the city with them, he needed to spend as much time as possible with them before they left, and the conversation moved on.

When the day came for the group to leave for Raverra, Martin found himself once more standing by the front steps of the Estate, early morning light throwing shadows to the side, birds trilling in the trees as carriages were loaded and people prepared to depart. He gripped Jon’s hand tightly, leaning into his side as they stood watching the preparations.

“You sure you don’t want to go with them?” Jon asked softly.

“Not in a million years.” Martin turned, hooking a hand around the back of Jon’s neck and drawing him down into a quick kiss. “I was actually just thinking it’ll be nice to have the place to ourselves again.”

“Agreed.” Jon glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, look who’s decided to join us.”

“Under duress. Georgie threatened to set the Admiral on me if I missed another of these little going away parties.” Gerry had slouched halfway down the stairs, and now sank down to sit where he was, stretching his legs down the rest of the steps to the ground. He drew his coat around his shoulders, glaring at where Georgie stood, chatting with Melanie as she prepared to lead the group back to the border. “Honestly, does she have no sense of self-preservation? Why is she palling around with the  _ fire warlock,  _ of all people?”

“Just because  _ you’re _ scared of her doesn’t mean everyone else is…” Jon raised an eyebrow, shooting Gerry a side glance.

_ “Scared?  _ I am not…” Gerry scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jon, why would you even say that?”

“Well, there is the fact that you jump every time she tries to talk to you…”

Gerry glared at Martin. “Really? You’re taking  _ his  _ side?”

“Obviously. Also, I think this is more ‘flirting’ than ‘palling around.’”

“Wait, really?” Both Jon and Gerry frowned, turning to stare at Georgie as she leaned in, picking a leaf out of Melanie’s hair and letting her hand linger.

Martin laughed. “Yes, really.”

The goodbyes were long and heartfelt, and Martin would be lying if he said he didn’t tear up a little. He was once again sworn into visiting, and Basira assured him she’d be doing her utmost to get the courier lamp network extended to the Estate so he could talk to them whenever he wanted without waiting for mail to go through. Generally advanced artificery devices like the lamps were kept out of Vaskandran hands as much as possible, but with the Falcons' Colonel, Captain, fire warlock,  _ and  _ top artificer supporting the project, she didn’t think she’d have much trouble.

Martin stood by the steps as the procession set off, waving and smiling and clinging to Jon’s arm for balance as he stood on his toes to watch them until they turned the corner out of sight. It was very quiet once they were gone.

“So,” he said, “what now?”

“Don’t know about you two, but I’m heading back in to read. Finally might be quiet enough to actually focus.” Gerry stood, stretching, and patted Martin on the back before turning up the steps and disappearing into the Estate. Martin watched him go, then turned to look at Jon.

Jon was watching him, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

“What?”

Jon shook his head. “I’m just happy that you’re here.”

“Oh.” Martin flushed, squeezing Jon’s hand. “Me too.” He glanced out at the forest around them, cloudless sky and a gentle breeze rustling the trees. “It’s a nice day. Want to go for a walk later?”

“I’d like that.” Jon tilted his head to the side. “Tea first?”

“Sounds good to me.” Martin leaned forward, standing on his toes again, and pressed a slow kiss to Jon’s lips. Jon smiled into it, the curl of his mouth soft and warm against Martin’s, and one of his hands lifted to run his fingers through Martin’s hair.

Then they parted, and went inside to make tea.


End file.
